Anna C.

A Fool's Tools

By the time I had rolled into my family’s lives, bills had long been archaic. My brother had been alive for a couple years while they were still used, but too young to use them himself. Of course, he still remembered them but only physically. He knew what it was my father dumped from three old flour sacks onto the thinly worn rug of our living room. I just watched the thin strips of green paper flutter to the ground in an abstract delight, enjoying the mess my father was indulging us in. I looked to my brother, who quirked a questioning smile, raising his eyebrows at our father. He was enjoying the display too, but neither of us knew what he was getting at.