The odd, yellow statues stood in the middle of their torn purple wrappings. Inexpertly crafted from tin foil, they each appeared to be models of the same subject. The children, all aged between four and nineteen, stared at the gifts–first their own, then each other’s–in bewilderment.
“Y’all deserve them golden calves,” spat Grandpa, his hands in trembling, unclenched fists of righteous rage, “’cause y’all are idolators.”
The heads of the children all turned to look at the old man at the head of the long table, their living ancestor, gloomy and feeble in his wheelchair.
“With your iPods and your DVDs, your Nintendos and your hybrid cars…” Grandpa muttered, sinking his head between his shoulders, trailing off into incoherence.