Oh Why?

Dumpy Dickie, freckled and curly-haired, pushed his red wooden truck along the linoleum floor. Rumbling and rattling and purring, he pushed it in circles 'round Sally who bawled.

"You've played with it for ten minutes. Now give your sister a chance," said a deep voice coming from way above a pair of size twelve shoes.

Oh, why do we have to take turns?

Richard, less dumpy, still freckled, now sixty and no longer Dickie, no longer remembered that red wooden truck.

He exercised, ate food without preservatives, negotiated with executives. He washed off pesticides, avoided medications and aerosol sprays. Oh?

The feet inside the size twelve shoes were now a pair of bones.

He never smoked. Nor drank. Not only that, he was honest, always tried to do the right thing, tried not to hurt others, not to be greedy. Oh, why?

The deep voice was now an echo.

Oh, why was this happening?

An echo, "You've played with it for sixty years," coming from way above a pair of size twelve bones.

Oh, why do we have to take turns?