Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Mother cooked. Father read. Oldest son set a game up on the bed. “Can I play?” asked the littlest, hopefullest one. “Nope.” “Who you playin’ with then.” “Simon.” “But Si’s gone away.” Mother stopped cooking and father stopped reading and both rushed in to ask, “Where’s your brother gone?” But nobody knew. So parents each led a child by the hand while vacationing strangers stared. “Brown eyes. Brown hair. About so high?” They sought him high and low. A friendly couple were wiping the little boy’s tears. “Your folks’ll soon be here,” they said. “They’ll find you.” And they did.

The kindness of strangers welcomed her after so long afraid. And if they’d paid for her, at least they gave her a place to live. Their kindness determined who she loved and married, the names of her kids. Their kindness was the same to animals. The kindness of strangers welcomed her the day she ran away. They gave her aid and work and freedom too. But their kindness still decreed she still wasn’t quite the same as they, and kept her apart. The kindness of strangers wasn’t what her children rebelled against—just the way they still called them strange.