It began simply enough – as most things do.
I said hello and smiled.
She looked at me from under her ink–colored lashes and gave me a crescent shaped grin. It showed off her dimples, the color of fresh peaches.
I told her I liked her shoes – yellow ballet flats with satin bows trimmed with rhinestones. The tiny bits of purple and iridescent green shimmered in the soft strands of southern California morning sun.
Like the scales of the rainbow fish, I said.
She nodded and came closer.
My name is Miss T. I told her. I held out my hand, spotted and wrinkled with a highway of purple veins.
She put her thin white hand in mine. It was soft and cool. She told me her name was Grace.
Her voice was sweet and pert, like a lemon drop.
I asked how she came by such a lovely name. She said she wasn’t sure but she thought that it had something to do with a famous actress named Grace her mother really liked to watch in old black and white movies.
It is nice to meet you Grace, I said, gently squeezing her hand.
It was Monday morning. I had been assigned snack and recess duty. As a kindergarten instructional assistant, a fancy term for teacher’s aide, I was responsible for a variety of tasks like opening milk boxes, assisting in the removal of lids from stubborn cups of yogurt and wiping runny noses.
My pint sized charges – all twenty of them – had faithfully finished their apples, cookies, drinks and other treats; had disposed of their trash, visited the potty, washed their hands and were now running around on the playground.
Squeals of laughter could be heard as I let my eyes roam the snow-capped peaks of the San Joaquin foothills. Around me was a flurry of feet and scooters. Balls bouncing against the hard top collided with the sweet sound of birds chirping. I took a deep breath of morning air and sat down on the ledge of a planter.
It was a large circular pock-marked slab of grey stone that wrapped around a pair of maple trees heavy with peeling bark. Silent shadows fell across my young friend as she sat down next to me. Above our heads was a canopy of leaves, green and yellow and orange.
I unbuttoned the large knobby buttons of my thrift store sweater and rolled up the sleeves. I chuckled to myself as I looked at Grace’s ensemble, a Juicy Couture black velvet sweat suit, with the familiar logo crest on the left pocket.
The smell of jasmine was everywhere. The bees in the nearby bougainvillea were grumbling. A rogue bee with a tail the color of mud, landed on me, raising and lowering his backside and tickling the hair on my forearm. He looked like he was trying to unload something.
He won’t hurt you if you don’t move, Grace explained. Her long hair the color of molasses, veiled her almond shaped face.
As the bee moved up and down my arm, goose bumps popped up – little round hills of cold pink skin. I tried to keep my arm still so as to not frighten the bee. I didn’t want to chance having the visitor leave me with a nasty welt.
Thank you for telling me, I said to Grace.
I think a good choice here is to just let Mr. Bee finish his morning walk, don’t you? Grace nodded.
Finding nothing to eat or pollinate, the creature flicked his wax paper wings and flitted away. Grace dangled her long legs over the side of the planter. Her left foot tapped the dried leaves that had fallen off the maple tree. With the tip of her shoe she ground them into a mound of what looked like the crumbs left at the bottom of a cereal box.
Her smooth face was a stark contrast to my own – weathered and map-lined from decades of living. She was so young. How lucky she was! Her life was really just beginning with so much to see and do and learn. I on the other hand had seen life from many angles and had traveled many valleys and peaks.
Around her neck was a heart-shaped silver locket, a Tiffany’s necklace. In college, I remember seeing an advertisement for such a necklace and wishing I could have afforded one. A small heart-shaped piece of metal hanging from a thin strand of silver – it was the simplicity I liked. But back then, paying for college meant two part-time jobs just to cover tuition. There was no money left for such an indulgence. Seeing it around Grace’s gazelle-like neck brought back the memory of how much I had wanted one for myself.
Ribbons of white streamers crested across the sky, a piercing shade of blue. Clouds were sprinkled here and there. Spring was coming. It was teasing us with a sprig of salty beach air you could almost taste.
What are you doing Miss T.?
I turned around to see the twins Julia and Sophia skipping towards me. Their voices, like daffodils always made me smile.
The next thing I knew there were two pint sized bundles of energy in matching outfits wriggling their way onto my lap. I explained that I was enjoying a quiet moment with a new friend and I introduced the girls to Grace.
The twins said hello and Grace smiled shyly.
Throwing sweaty arms around my neck the girls shared with me a new song they had learned that morning in class.
I listened as the girls began, ‘the itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.’ They giggled and said that was all they could remember but would learn the rest and sing it for me tomorrow.
That sounds great, I said giving them a gentle hug. I will look forward to it.
After a few more laughs, the girls bounced off to play with Dominic who was taking a turn with the red wagon.
I removed the grass bits and melted chocolate from my neck and cheek. Then I turned to Grace, who was picking at an imaginary piece of lint on her shoulder. I asked if everything was okay.
She gave me a long silent look. Her eyes got big and glistened and her tongue licked the side of her mouth as if searching for something.
She reached out with her small pink tipped nails, took my hand and placed it on her chest. Inside, inside here is where it hurts the most, she whispered.
I could feel the fast pounding of her heart. It made me think of the time when I was about Grace’s age that my grandmother and I had rescued a baby sparrow that had fallen out of its nest. I remember holding the tiny creature in my hand and feeling the thump of its heart. It was so fragile. Carefully my grandmother climbed on a footstool and placed the bird back in his nest above the porch eave.
I cannot tell my mother because she will be sad, Grace whispered.
And my father, he tells me to be good and always do my very best and I can have anything I want.
Grace’s voice trailed off. I took her hand, placed it in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. The wind was rustling through the leaves above us and not too far away a crow announced his imminent arrival.
I looked out at the children playing on the slide, running and laughing, pushing each other on the swings. I felt the morning breeze against my cheek.
The school bell rang signaling the end of my day.
But for Grace, the day was just beginning.
2 Comments
October 2, 2009 at 4:49 pm
The odd thing about “Grace” is that the editors at TWF debated over whether to post this in poetry or fiction. The exotic language and descriptive juxtaposition gives a feeling of heightened beyond reality or dreamyness that feels poetic. It was the author who asked that we include it as a non-fiction piece. As an editor I am still wondering why this just doesn’t feel like non-fiction; the usual expectation from that genre is one of gritty reality or revelation.
We are happy to have another one of Camerone’s works at TWF.
October 19, 2009 at 7:25 pm
I really like this piece. It’s heavily descriptive but still manages to retain an air of mystery surrounding Grace and her family.
I have just found this site and love it!