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Viola ran back into my room and broke me from my reverie.
She added a purple teddy bear to my bag. “So you don’t forget me,” she uttered, breaking my heart.
“I’ll never forget you, flower,” I promised.
She held up her arms to be picked up. She was too old for that, I knew it.
My stepmother was forever yelling at me to put her down, but what could it harm now?
I lifted her to my chest, my arms crossed under her bum.
Placing her hands on either side of my face, she stared into my eyes. Hers were too old for her face.
I did that.
My presence in that house gave the sweetest little girl in the world old eyes.
She squeezed my face. “Ares, I love you. Don’t forget.”
Tears burned. I pulled her into a hug and blinked them back over her shoulder.
After a moment, she wiggled to get down. Her voice tight with unshed tears, she poked the purple bear and gave it a name.
“Flower.”
When she ran out that time, she did not come back.
My chest heaved with impotent rage as the shrill sound of my stepmother’s voice threatened to push me past my breaking point.
I turned back to my drawer, picked up the book, and leafed through the pages.
I was eleven the day he bought that book for me.
I’d dreamed of moments like that.
Prayed for more of them.
That book was one of my most precious possessions.
I could still picture it lying on my bed as I backed out of my room and closed my bedroom door for the last time.
When my father eventually brought me the rest of my things, the book was not with them.
I wondered if anyone loved it now.
I’d long since ceased to care about much.
But I cared now.
Non-Christmas
Hope
Now that the paint was dry, it didn’t look bad at all. I’d cleaned up, showered, and put on sweats.
I had a painting. And an accent wall.
It was a good start.
