Young Timmy held a broom horizontally and pantomimed strumming it like a guitar. He moved to the tune inside his head of the latest pop song and pretended he was playing as he wailed out the lyrics best as he could remember them. His mother came across his imaginary guitar virtuosity and beamed maternally.
“Well this is more useful than sweeping,” mother kidded.
Timmy stopped playing. “Someday I’m going to be a rock star!” he proclaimed with unrestrained, youthful enthusiasm.
“Why that’s just splendid, dear!” mother said approvingly. “So what are you going to do for a day job?”
©2019 Robert Kirkendall