Menagerie
ARIANNA KAPLAN
It’s 2016, perhaps 2017. It’s Hanukkah. I’m barely finished being a child, but I know not to
expect much in terms of presents. I don’t know much about money, but I know the taste of want
and know to say nothing about it. I’m proven wrong—you tell me that you have something for
me. Reaching fingers. Bright anticipation; an unfurling of a fist. A little green alien, resting in
your palm. Red bulbous nose, white, white eyes. No more than an inch tall, if that. I crush it to
my chest.
My father’s face is thin and it’s just the two of us now. We lived in our state with our family, our
tribe, but our tribe has dispersed long ago, and you were never much into family trees anyhow, so
we have no ties left here. We move.
My father comes from a household crammed with objects. Cookie tins and Bubbie’s
tablecloths and drawers of napkin rings. Claustrophobic. Cramped. Grabbing hands clutching broken
hoses, plastic shopping bags shoved in more bags contained under the sink. Our house is bare. He
doesn’t believe in stuff. Hates the clutter. My father prefers art on the walls and nothing but books on
the shelves. He doesn’t always believe in presents.
Seven days, seven animals. My glass menagerie blossoms. I started with my little alien. Then a
black horse with legs as thin as floss. He must have noticed my heavy gaze at each and every
riding barn we passed on the side of the highway. Another horse, a white one. A seal. A whale
and a dolphin.
My father believes himself to have some soul tie to snow leopards and bears. For him, they’re
totems of traits he admires. Fortitude. Resilience. Determination. I’ve always believed myself to be a
lion. Whatever magic he has been clinging to, though, doesn’t seem to be working. His face is thinner,
his eyes are sadder, and his facial hair is turning to grey. The local soda fountain in Maryland sells these
animals. Candies. Games. Gag gifts. Through me, he gets to be a child again. A monkey with an
extended arm like it should be holding a tambourine. A bird. A blue whale, propped up on two
delicate pointed flippers. I display them proudly; my father’s gift to me.
This new place isn’t right. We move again. I display my menagerie on my desk. Despite my
careful wrappings, the needlepoint leg of the black horse snaps off. I try to hold the pieces
together, but there’s no putting back together crushed glass. I fabricate a leg out of armature wire
and a base made from a popsicle stick, and my horse lives to see another day. An ear snaps off of
the monkey, but I make no repairs for that one. I never much liked it.
My father carries the mark of these animals in his chest. The weight of my childhood. I keep
my animals tethered to me; I’m not ready to grow up just yet. He buys me more animals. These are
jade. Eight elephants, in order from largest to smallest. I say thank you, but I dislike them too.
They’re too big, too clunky. They breathe down the necks of my menagerie, intimidating my
stoic sentinels. I display them next to me and mine anyways.
The Menagerie watches me purge my childhood. Clothes. Toys. Letters. He sneaks the letters
from the garbage when I’m not looking. Ten years later and I miss the toys; glad I have the
letters. We move again. My animals tucked into a red bag, red velvet with a plasticky lining. I’ve
acquired a few more: a hedgehog. A snake. Another bird. Animal by animal, the years of my life pass. I
do some decluttering, some redecorating, and I forget about the bag.
Another purge. I’m about to leave for college. It’s time to shed my old self. Clothes,
medals, art; straight to the garbage. I have enough autonomy that my father doesn’t save anything this
time. My glass animals get tossed into the bin. I hesitate. Reach into the garbage and retrieve the bag.
For the first time in years, I open it. My animals are cracked. I put my hand in and draw them out and a
drop of red bleeds out from under my nail, where glass has stuck and cut. There is the head of the
monkey, minus that crooked ear. The wing of the toucan. The wire leg, still attached to half the body
of the black horse. The seal, entirely intact. A royal-red pouch, heavy with the weight of a decade of
moves, loss, connection. Pieces of my child self, fragmented into shards that no amount of armature
wire and superglue could bring back, but my father doesn’t love me any less. My animals died while
uttering love spells, a bag of powder and wishes and whimsy.
I keep my animals in that red velvet bag in the single box of mementoes I’ve allowed myself to
carry. I am my father’s daughter, and no excess clutter will ever collect in my house. Some things,
though, will be allowed to stay. Like a bag of crushed magic, five-dollar miniature glass animals that
became the menagerie I dreamed my way through to find the place I get to call my present. My now.
My animals.
expect much in terms of presents. I don’t know much about money, but I know the taste of want
and know to say nothing about it. I’m proven wrong—you tell me that you have something for
me. Reaching fingers. Bright anticipation; an unfurling of a fist. A little green alien, resting in
your palm. Red bulbous nose, white, white eyes. No more than an inch tall, if that. I crush it to
my chest.
My father’s face is thin and it’s just the two of us now. We lived in our state with our family, our
tribe, but our tribe has dispersed long ago, and you were never much into family trees anyhow, so
we have no ties left here. We move.
My father comes from a household crammed with objects. Cookie tins and Bubbie’s
tablecloths and drawers of napkin rings. Claustrophobic. Cramped. Grabbing hands clutching broken
hoses, plastic shopping bags shoved in more bags contained under the sink. Our house is bare. He
doesn’t believe in stuff. Hates the clutter. My father prefers art on the walls and nothing but books on
the shelves. He doesn’t always believe in presents.
Seven days, seven animals. My glass menagerie blossoms. I started with my little alien. Then a
black horse with legs as thin as floss. He must have noticed my heavy gaze at each and every
riding barn we passed on the side of the highway. Another horse, a white one. A seal. A whale
and a dolphin.
My father believes himself to have some soul tie to snow leopards and bears. For him, they’re
totems of traits he admires. Fortitude. Resilience. Determination. I’ve always believed myself to be a
lion. Whatever magic he has been clinging to, though, doesn’t seem to be working. His face is thinner,
his eyes are sadder, and his facial hair is turning to grey. The local soda fountain in Maryland sells these
animals. Candies. Games. Gag gifts. Through me, he gets to be a child again. A monkey with an
extended arm like it should be holding a tambourine. A bird. A blue whale, propped up on two
delicate pointed flippers. I display them proudly; my father’s gift to me.
This new place isn’t right. We move again. I display my menagerie on my desk. Despite my
careful wrappings, the needlepoint leg of the black horse snaps off. I try to hold the pieces
together, but there’s no putting back together crushed glass. I fabricate a leg out of armature wire
and a base made from a popsicle stick, and my horse lives to see another day. An ear snaps off of
the monkey, but I make no repairs for that one. I never much liked it.
My father carries the mark of these animals in his chest. The weight of my childhood. I keep
my animals tethered to me; I’m not ready to grow up just yet. He buys me more animals. These are
jade. Eight elephants, in order from largest to smallest. I say thank you, but I dislike them too.
They’re too big, too clunky. They breathe down the necks of my menagerie, intimidating my
stoic sentinels. I display them next to me and mine anyways.
The Menagerie watches me purge my childhood. Clothes. Toys. Letters. He sneaks the letters
from the garbage when I’m not looking. Ten years later and I miss the toys; glad I have the
letters. We move again. My animals tucked into a red bag, red velvet with a plasticky lining. I’ve
acquired a few more: a hedgehog. A snake. Another bird. Animal by animal, the years of my life pass. I
do some decluttering, some redecorating, and I forget about the bag.
Another purge. I’m about to leave for college. It’s time to shed my old self. Clothes,
medals, art; straight to the garbage. I have enough autonomy that my father doesn’t save anything this
time. My glass animals get tossed into the bin. I hesitate. Reach into the garbage and retrieve the bag.
For the first time in years, I open it. My animals are cracked. I put my hand in and draw them out and a
drop of red bleeds out from under my nail, where glass has stuck and cut. There is the head of the
monkey, minus that crooked ear. The wing of the toucan. The wire leg, still attached to half the body
of the black horse. The seal, entirely intact. A royal-red pouch, heavy with the weight of a decade of
moves, loss, connection. Pieces of my child self, fragmented into shards that no amount of armature
wire and superglue could bring back, but my father doesn’t love me any less. My animals died while
uttering love spells, a bag of powder and wishes and whimsy.
I keep my animals in that red velvet bag in the single box of mementoes I’ve allowed myself to
carry. I am my father’s daughter, and no excess clutter will ever collect in my house. Some things,
though, will be allowed to stay. Like a bag of crushed magic, five-dollar miniature glass animals that
became the menagerie I dreamed my way through to find the place I get to call my present. My now.
My animals.
Arianna (SC '27) is a junior at Scripps College. She likes to write.