Before moving Sluggo from his bowl, Aunt Esther marked his shell with some red fingernail polish so she could distinguish him from the rest. Then she flopped down on the couch beside Michael.
“Oh, what would your mother think, Michael, if she could see this mess we’ve gotten ourselves into!”
She looked at Michael with a broad smile, but it quickly disappeared. The boy’s eyes were full of pain.
“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Michael turned his head away.
Aunt Esther, who had not embraced anyone in years, gently put her arm about his shoulders.
“I am so sorry, Michael. Oh, you must hate me.
Michael sensed a familiar smell then. His mother’s talc.
He looked at his aunt.
“No, Aunt Esther.” He shook his head solemnly. “I don’t hate you.”
Esther’s mouth trembled and her bangles clanked as she patted his arm. She took a deep, strong breath.
“Well, let’s look in on our friend Sluggo,” she said.
They leaned their heads over the tank and found him. The crab, finished with the old home that no longer fit, was coming out of his shell.
Cynthia Rylant, Every Living Thing
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