Late last night, Jessica discovered a comma at the end of one of my sentences.
I wasn’t sure how he got there. Perhaps he had mistaken himself for a period (one whom was perhaps made fun of by periods for having that little tail).
He looked a little lost, so I took him in and named him Virgil.
He doesn’t say much of anything, but he helps me with things like making lists, and slowing me down when I get to rambling.
He’s sleeping right now, and I like to think that he is dreaming of one day becoming a semicolon, valiantly connecting two independent clauses, but I know he is content with who he is- Virgil, my pet comma.
Advertisement
