The Naked Truth
When I asked my twelve-year old son why on earth he was running stark naked to the family room, crossing in his path the glass door on the street side, he grinned mischievously and said: "I'm a piece of God's art in this living museum."
All I said to him after that answer was to be ware of Weeto, it looked like he wanted to take a sample of that piece of dangling sausage. Dan was not at all concerned about the possibility of being mutilated by our white terrier. So I casually added: "I don't think Mona Lisa is pleased with what she sees. She's used to Rodin's caliber and you look more like a walking skeleton."
Dan was very sensitive about Mona Lisa's glance. He quickly turned his gaze to the reproductive painting in our living room, and there she was, with her enigmatic mirth and eyes that followed and judged. Dan broke into a fast run back into the bathroom, screaming: "Aah.... She is haunting me."
I chuckled, thinking: "Son, you are my naked truth. In you will reflect all my hope, dream, ambition, success and failure, my rebirth and death."