Munchkins

by Mariana Tupper

They toddle about on their short legs, peering in windows, tasting our foods. Like hungry travelers they arrive demanding instant service: food and drink, tiny clothing and beds. They speak in magical tongues and befriend inanimate objects. Their play here seems as random as the wind, yet their sense of purpose is unwavering: They have come to teach us how to behave. Diligence! they cry, stacking the blocks for the hundredth time. Patience! they shout as we usurp their business in an effort to put order back into our lives. The floor is covered with toys. The kitchen cabinets are emptied of every last pot and pan. Who are these creatures, telling us what to do? Their innocent eyes peer up at us. Their pudgy bodies stumble about like astronauts on the moon. One moment they are ripping dolls from each other's hands; the next they have fallen in an embrace upon the floor, giggling. Tragedy is a book out of reach; joy is an exuberant kiss. Their belief in justice humbles us. Who is to say we know more than they? If a fire truck can be shared, then maybe world peace isn't too far behind. Constantly, they watch us for clues.