Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Teenagers don’t play hide’n seek; they simply wander off; away somewhere; gone with the wind, with friends, with strangers, maybe. Panic sprays like dust. Fear tastes like donkey dung. Streets flash by while flying feet seek solace. And there he sits—all’s right with the world—about his father’s business.

He met her in the gardens in the rain and pointed out flowers. She wasn’t sure why. When he found she liked sugar in her coffee he bought some, just for her; bought some chocolate cookies too. They went to a math lecture one evening, and another on paranormal psychology. Then he loaned her a rather large book just before Christmas vacation. She didn’t quite realize at the time that it was a ploy, a trick so she’d have to see him again to return it. But when he brought flowers before class on Valentines Day, she finally knew why.

Cars are where parents and teens can talk without ever looking into each other’s eyes. “So, what’s with this Steven character?” “Who?” “The one you keep talking about.” “No I don’t.” “He’s in most of your classes.” “We do the same subjects.” “You’ve gone to the movies.” “We like the same films.” “And had dinner.” “He had to invite someone or he’d have looked strange.” “Very strange… And then you had to take time out to phone him in the middle of our visit.” Jennifer suddenly shouted, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Stop the car.” “Why dear?” “Because Steven’s over there.”

“I didn’t mean it Mom.” “I know.” “I didn’t mean to run too fast And break the glass And trip and fall And knock the tallest cupboard - All the pretty plates fell down.” “I know.” “So why you frowning Mom?” “It’s not a frown; a falling smile.” “Can I catch it, please?” “In a while.” “I didn’t mean it Mom.” “I know.” “I didn’t mean to get home late And break your heart.” But fractured love-lines mend. “When?” “In the end.” “I didn’t mean it Mom. I love you Mom,” With smiles and love and mending meant, Eternal and worthwhile.

Mom thought he was with Dad; twelve years old, too big to sit and listen to women’s chat. Dad thought he was still with Mom; pretended he was all grown up, but too young for serious matters and fatherly talk about death and taxes. The boy’s young friends knew he’d gone away to hang with the teenagers now. And the teens didn’t care; not their job to look after kids. When they met for dinner and he wasn’t there, they sent search parties out to find him; all because he’d decided to stay behind; all because no-one listened; no-one knew.

Some mornings nobody wants to wake up—the air's too cold; bed-clothes too snugly warm. But sounds of movement disturb him now. Feet bound. Doors rattle and slam on pots and pans. Scents drift with mysteries to share; laughter in the bathroom; giggles in the crib; and church-bells ring. Some mornings he buries his head and pretends he’s not there, pretends not to care. But today baby brother’s rushed in with milk-suds on his chin. “Christmas!” he says; it’s one of the few words he knows. Some mornings are different, so just for once, just this morning, the teenager grins.

“My girlfriend’s pregnant,” said the youth as the church choir went caroling. “Then you’re a sinner,” said the elder. “We’re engaged to be married.” “It’s still a sin.” “His girlfriend’s pregnant,” said the elder to the priest. And the choir sang “Come let us adore.” “We’ll have to throw him out,” said the priest, “or he’ll corrupt the youth.” But the old man said, “Put it to the vote. Let him who’s without sin cast the first stone.” “His girlfriend’s pregnant,” was the verdict. And, “Mary had a baby boy.” It’s the sick and sinners who receive the greatest gift.

“ ‘Your world is as big as you make it.’* ” Ginny slammed down her homework by the computer. “How the *** do I write about that?” “Speak nicely Ginny,” said her mother. “Yeah Mom. Sure.” Ginny flounced onto her chair. “Sit nicely.” “Sure.” She bit her apple, spitting out seeds. “Eat nicely.” Sure. Then Ginny started to type. Her mind found its groove, the essay growing swiftly under her hands, and fingers shrank. “Ginny, where are you?” “Here Mom,” she replied from inside the computer screen. “I’m in my own world now; it’s as big as I make it.” (* quote from Georgia Douglas Johnson (1866-1966) )