I’m stumped by my choices. I read the list again and shake my head. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Nope. I still can’t decide.
I recalled my childhood dinner table. My mother was vegetable bargaining, again, making me think I had a choice. “You have a choice,” she insisted. That night, I could enjoy either mushy, yellow-green broccoli spears or slimy, sauteed mushrooms. I told her neither. “Neither is a choice,” I said. Apparently, not at her table. So, my mother served me healthy portions of both broccoli and mushrooms.
I read the candidate list again, but I still couldn’t decide.
I recalled my childhood dinner table. My mother was vegetable bargaining, again, making me think I had a choice. “You have a choice,” she insisted. That night, I could enjoy either mushy, yellow-green broccoli spears or slimy, sauteed mushrooms. I told her neither. “Neither is a choice,” I said. Apparently, not at her table. So, my mother served me healthy portions of both broccoli and mushrooms.
I read the candidate list again, but I still couldn’t decide.
