When I was very young I saw Chico.
Perhaps it was PBS. It must have been. My uncle had a shrunken head hanging from the door knob on the closet. I asked if it was real. He said, “Yes.” And it was as far as the advertisements in the back of comic books could guarantee. I’d touch it and stare at it, hoping that he would speak and open his eyes. But they were sewn shut. It was a world of disappointment. Finding him again has been a world of hooray.