Beloved Pukas

          My husband wears pukas in his undershirts like badges of masculinity. The more pukas, the more proudly he wears them.
          “Can’t you put on another shirt when we go jogging?” I sigh.
          “Good for air conditioning,” he smiles.
          Once when I tried to sneak through his underwear drawer to get rid of the holey rags, my daughter caught me and tattled. “Daddy, mom is throwing out your t-shirts!”
          “Ay, don’t touch my stuff!” He warned.
          I gave my daughter a look. “Shhhh,” I scolded. “He has a whole drawer of unused ones. He’s not even going to miss these.”
          “But he loves his holey shirts. Comfortable, that’s why.” Brandishing a spear adorned with a raggedy undershirt flapping in the wind like a tribal banner, she faced the enemy.
          Hah, Daddy’s girl. She would defend him to the end.
          The other day I was washing dishes and she started foraging in the refrigerator for something to eat. “Hey mom, what’s for dinner?”
          I looked up from my scrubbing and stared in horror at the back of her t-shirt. Two big pukas stared back at me. How could my little princess who loves to paint her nails and spends hours on You-tube watching hair and make up videos commit such an offense?
          She clicked her tongue and gave me that steely look. “Comfortable, that’s why.”