A Homeless Puppet

Santiago was old, sad, and tired, and he did not want to go out. Since the death of his beautiful, young wife, Santiago had not seen sunshine. He had retired from his business of making wodden puppets and his only family was his son, Mark, and Mark’s three-year-old son, Jose. He found no reason to leave his studio apartment.

“Come on, dad,” Mark said, coming in uninvited. “You only turn eighty once. Jose is looking forward to the puppet museum. Come on, dad, it will be fun.”

Mark dragged his grumbling father out into the Florida sunshine and lead him to his car. Santiago took one look at his sticky grandson in the back seat and groaned. He did not want to go.

Once at the museum, Santiago slammed the car door. Mark followed quickly with Jose at his side. The three generations of men stood in awe at the beautiful, hand-crafted puppets.

“Aren’t they cool, grandpa?” Jose whispered.

“Yeah,” was all Santiago could mutter, “yeah, Jose, they’re cool.”

Looking at the puppets gave Santiago a weird, nostalgic feeling. He remembered the last puppet he carved before the death of his wife. The puppet’s name was George, after his wife’s father. He had wanted to give it to her, but he was too late. Santiago did not even realize the silent tears running down his face.

“Come on, Jose. It’s time to go,” Mark whispered. The three men left as if bound by one soul.

Upon reaching his house, Santiago blurted out, “wait! I have a gift for the boy!” Mark gave him a nod, and he ran into the house. He pulled out an old, dusty box and lifted George from it.

Santiago went back to the car and handed the puppet to the car and handed the puppet to his grandson. Jose smiled.

“Happy birthday, dad,” Mark said. As his son drove away, Santiago heard a soft “cool” whispered from the backseat of the car.

Santiago was glad he went. He was eighty-years-young and, for the first time in a long time, happy and satisfied.