So often, the mouth moved wordlessly
Twisting, painfully fish-like,
Waiting for someone to remove the hook
Standing silently on the fringes
Of Red Rover and Dodgeball
Stooping to tie-untie-tie a shoelace
Whenever a classmate approached.
Mommy never had playground duty,
Didn't dispense juice and cookies.
Everyone knew she was "delicate"...
As delicate as the frail little arms
Tinted blue and black and green
Under the thin, pale skin.
Silently he suffered in long sleeves
Even in the heat of late June
When sun baked the asphalt.
The bell rang at three
Immediately followed by whoops of freedom
Spilling from the mouths of other children,
Children who ran home to open arms
And hours of afternoon play.
He played his own game,
Discovering how slowly he could walk home
Touching heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe.
Slowly, quietly opening the front door,
He drew a rare easy breath at the sound of strange voices
And drunken laughter in the other room.
Tucking some cookies in his pocket,
He slipped by them unnoticed,
Exercising a talent he'd discovered and perfected at an early age.
He was expert at becoming something peripheral,
A wallpapered background, white noise.
He knew exactly where to let his foot fall on the stairs,
All the spots that were his co-conspirators,
Carrying him silently upwards with no tattle-tale creaks.
Tiny twig limbs scurried into a night-time kingdom,
Safe under a tent of sheets and blankets.
This night would pass blessedly undisturbed
Until he woke to the best the day had to offer...
A bowl of cereal and six more hours of school.

©1998 Gail Von Schlichting

Love a child that isn't your own...
make a difference in someone's life.