This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.
In those days I carried three children: on my back,
on my hip, in my belly. I had barely strength
for anything else, no more than a day’s supply
of milk and cookies and a few emergency toys
to keep their little mouths quiet. I walked. I walked.
Sometimes I borrowed a little red wagon for
the children who were old enough to sit but that was difficult
on hills or trails with uneven surfaces. I’d knock
at their father’s door and the children would call
him, “Da, da, da.” But he didn’t answer. Perhaps
he was not home. Or busy. You see I’d misplaced the key
to his heart, which was also the key to shelter and warmth.
I grew too tired to walk with such weight. I set
the children on his doorstep. I told them to hold
each other. I set down the milk and cookies and toys
and some clean diapers and books I’d managed to save
beside them with a note: “Please take care of these children.
They are very valuable. Thank you.” I rang the bell.
I crouched behind a tree that used to flower. He came
out when he saw that I was gone. Their father. He took them
inside. Everyday I walk by in my heavy disguise. I see
what I must. I see them dancing. I hear laughter.
And they sing. Songs that were our songs.
