I’d never been to the zoo before.

We were standing in the sun. One small, warm hand in each of mine. Sterile words, like cotton, sighing from my lips all on their own. Eyes locked on the sad display in front of us.

The tigers — misplaced in a jungle of steel and concrete — muscles bunching beneath their fiery coats as they pace back and forth, roaring.

My children are excited, babbling.

“Yes,” I say, “they are pretty.”

“Yes,” I say, “they are talking to one another.”

Yes, I think, I feel just like that sometimes. Trapped in a place made for me by a well-meaning idiot.

Except, I have a choice, I guess.

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