Speak

September 1, 2013 § Leave a comment

Her shirt was wrinkled. He couldn’t find his tie. Sunday morning rushed around, muffled in rough brown carpet.

I sat and waited and painted over the elephant on the wall. I heard him bursting out of the pond, trumpeting, his big flat feet pounding heavy. I thumped my feet, too, but they just made a little clicking sound and no one really heard.

She tumbled in with a bow in her hand and I scrambled away behind the spinning chair. It stayed between us and she didn’t have time to fight me. Her shirt wrinkled in her brief effort.

Crammed in a car seat and squirming in an itchy dress. You’ll wrinkle it. A vindictive good tugged on my eyebrows.

They took me to a room of babbling little people and left me there. We’ll be back in an hour. I was trapped amid a sea of leaky noses and drool and no one had enough sense to hold a conversation. The teacher talked on and on about a grandfather who built a boat and I knew that story and she didn’t tell it right.

I felt like time-out. Sunday morning dragged on and I thought church was silly.

They came back, eventually, and indifference tugged on my eyebrows this time. Mother came to my level, where things made more sense, and asked me if I liked it there.

I held my hips in defiance, the way she did when I wouldn’t wear my bows.

Mother, the teacher and I are the only people who can speak. 

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