Pop Goes the Weasel
“Excuse me, sir,” said Rosina. “Do you mind if I tag along on the train with you and your boy? I would love to continue singing with him, he reminds me so much of my son. My dear boy.”
Before I could say anything, my father agreed.
“Of course,” he said. “And if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your son?”
Her smile faded and her face withered, revealing its true age no longer masked by her beaming aura.
“Life happened, sir,” she said. “I had four children. I don’t know where they are now. Truth is, I made mistakes. An awful lot of mistakes, sir. They cost me, my children and my boy was not much older than your son is now. He always had this live step to him jumping and hollering like he was some wild man. He wanted to be a dancer and I told him to do it, but I didn’t have the money, not at the time. And my daughter, oh she was a mighty thing, loved singing. She would sing for hours every day, from ‘Hakuna Matata’ to Beyonce, just like your boy.”