When I was little, I was terrorized by a little turkey. He lived under the stairs in our old house on Banana Grove Street in Saigon. We did not have a big house, and there were nine people (sometimes more) living in that little building. Perhaps the turkey knew there wasn't much love for him in those quarters. He smelled my young fear.
I did not coddle him. I did not feed him or walk him. He knew I avoided him. My aunt did not want to eat him (We didn't have Thanksgiving, and he was a rather thin turkey with little fat or meat under his plumes) or sell him.
Every day, he would watch me, morning and night, his little eyes focused on me as I held my breath while slinking along the opposite wall. I think he was trying to tell me something I was far too young to understand. I did not know the language of turkeys.
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