So, Thanksgiving morning, I'm perched on the round stone seats in the garden, facing Rodin's famous Gates of Hell, contemplating the meaning of life. A young family approaches, couple in their early thirties, and about a 5 year old boy. The boy marches right past me up to within a couple of feet of the sculpture, cranes his neck to look up at it (it's about 20 feet high), and then turns and asks his mom, "What is it?"
"It's called the Gates of Hell."
"Really? Can we open it?"
And from behind me, the father quickly intones, "Uh, no. We definitely don't want to open those."
Cracked me right up.
This story contains 163 words.
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