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you never have a reason to stop and think and mourn
lost childhood faiths.
The storm brought rain and shut out the stars. I
went to sleep early and didn't wait up for Thatcher,
who came home late anyway.
What a welcome brightness it was for me,
therefore, to be at the terminal gate the next day,
waiting for Amou to deplane. I had not seen her for so
long, and I was happy to see immediately that she had put on some weight. At five feet nine, she had always been on the thin side. When I was a little girl. I worried that she would wither like fruit on a vine and get blown away by a fierce wind. My adoptive mother was also tall, but so much more substantial-looking. perhaps because of her hard demeanor. Amou always looked like a lightweight in the ring with a
heavyweight when my adoptive mother confronted her. Why Amou staved with us so long. I'd never know. Anyone else serving such a demanding mistress would have long before found excuses to leave, I told myself it was only because of me. At
least. I hoped it was.
Amou wasn't as beautiful as my adoptive
mother, but my adoptive mother was jealous of
Amou's vibrantly red hair, which she kept long, down
to her shoulder blades. Often I would sit beside her in
her room while she untied her hair and brushed and
brushed it, telling me how important it was to care for
your hair. She had a secret formula for natural
shampoo that involved olive oil and eggs and other
things she wouldn't reveal, especially to my adoptive
mother, who constantly nagged her about cutting her
beautiful hair.
"Why do you bother keeping it so long if you always wear it tied up anyway? What a waste of your
time!" she would tell Amou.
Amou always nodded as if she agreed, but
ignored her. It was the way she handled my mother, a
way that made me smile to remember now. In her own
way. Amou was a better psychiatrist than my father,
or at least as good when it came to dealing with my
adoptive mother. She once whispered her secret to
