Maryanne

1976

The Cadillac arrived like thunder,

rare sound in a dusty town

where neighbors lived two miles apart.

I ran down the hillside,

thorns clawing at my ankles,

my skinny arms waving

like tassels in the wind.

Inside, the adults spoke in soft tones.

“She’s having a hard time,”

“She won’t come inside.”

Their words rose like fog

until I slipped out,

as unnoticed as I had arrived.

There, in the back seat,

my new foster sister.

Mousy blonde hair

hanging like a curtain

over her face,

thin but not weak,

silent,

a rag doll slumped in chrome and leather.

“Hi,” I said.

Nothing.

“Do you want to come inside?”

She shook her head.

I looked around,

searching for an idea in the air,

my fingers running over the soft fur

of the kitten in my hands.

Then,

I thrust the kitten through the open window,

held it out for her,

this fuzzy yellow thing

I’d nearly tripped over in the dirt yard.

It mewed, softly.

She burst into tears,

grabbed it,

held it to her chest.

Then handed it back.

Three days it took

before Maryanne laughed at a joke,

asked for seconds at dinner.

But that moment,

that tiny mew,

that was the beginning,  

the first thread

of understanding

between us.