Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ronda Miller May 2015
Sammy wants to brush my
hair, but it's an excuse to eat
it. Hands surprisingly large for
his age, he leans fully into me, puts
his entire face into my hair, breathes deeply and takes it into his mouth. "Eeew," the other children squeal. "He's eating your hair! He's leaving slobbers!" I remind him not to eat
my hair.  "But it tastes so good!" he says as he takes in another mouthful. He eats only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, Cheerios, and drinks milk or apple juice. His new friend, who goes to the same school
in the morning but is brought on a different bus to my house at noon, is more limited in his food choices. Brian only eats dry Cheerios and plain flour tortillas. I remind myself to buy a family size box of Cheerios the next time I go to the store. Brian always holds two rocks in his hands, doesn't speak, but does scream loud frequently. When I wash his hands, I wash the rocks lovingly before I give them back to him. Sammy stops running through the yard, tapping everything with the yellow Little Tykes hammer I've been meaning to throw away daily, long enough to put his
arm around Brian, says, "What's wrong, little buddy?" before he begins tapping wildly again with the hammer. He taps the 14 year old Persian cat, who looks more than irritated as he moves quickly through the yard. He taps my arm, heads in the direction of my car, I steer him in a different direction. His father arrives to pick him up, asks, "Did he have a good day?" I lie, say, "Yes!" Brian screams more loudly when he sees Sammy is leaving. I remind him he still has his rocks in his hands. I pick up the Little Tykes hammer, make my way around the yard tapping on everything, listening to the different sounds it makes, so new to my ears.

— The End —