Artwork © Eric N. Peterson

 

mommy monkey

I can’t remember who gave us mommy monkey,
I say us, but I really mean him,
Babies do not know,
When they are the recipients of gifts,
I might have bought mommy myself—
Anyway the point is,
Mommy monkey was always in his life—
In our lives,
Like an appendage,
Same as the pacifier,
Which we had to send away on a balloon,
When he turned two,
The pediatrician recommended,
We tell him the pacifier was going to help other babies,
`Somewhere far away (this strategy failed),
He held her by the neck, stuck his butt in the air,
Inside his fuzzy sleep sack and slept with her,
He held her by the arm,
Dragged her around the house,
As snot and drool dripped down his face,
Nuzzled her face into his nose,
An obsessive habit he developed,
Like the way he repeatedly pressed the buttons on the book,
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony for Children,
Each button a different instrument,
Until all the buttons broke,
He differentiated her, somehow, from daddy monkey,
Who was in fact the exact same monkey,
And easily, from baby monkey,
Who was much smaller,
Eventually mommy monkey became very dirty—
She lost a leg,
Fur matted, she smelled like childhood,
And he kept her in his bed,
Squirreled away under the covers like a secret,
But he might have still cuddled next to mommy monkey,
All the times,
He slammed the door in my face,
And screamed that he hated me,
He might have whispered to her,
His fears about growing up,
When I stood outside his door,
And first asked him to open it,
then demanded,
Who knows, mommy monkey might have whispered back,
Is that why he apologized to me for being so cruel,
Getting older is so hard, mom,
He said and I agreed with him,
It sure is, bud.

 

Emily Farber is an emerging writer studying with the Writer’s Studio. She is based in Brooklyn, New York and is an attorney by day. She lives with her husband and three sons and can be seen jogging very slowly throughout her neighborhood.

Eric N. Peterson is from Atlanta, Ga. He’s been drawing cartoons all his life. He leans towards the absurd, imaginative, and the surreal, as that’s where all the flavor is.