Shama:
There was something about Sheila that made me feel the oozing of her soul. She was wounded, having no longer any faith in herself. Old Mother would have known how to heal Sheila. I wished that I had even an ounce of Old Mother’s abilities. How did one accumulate such words that could soothe and patch up a life gone into darkness?
“The boys were and are the spark of sunshine that wakened me into the beauty of life,” I said, then felt my face burn from being so poetic or . . . trite, depending on how Sheila would receive that statement.
“You weren’t always this chipper?” Sheila asked, looking vaguely interested. In fact, I think that she might almost to be clinging to some hope that I’d open the door for her into that same sunlight.
“My life before Tinkle Town was pretty bad,” I continued. “It was Frey, my horse, who was the focus of most of my joy after Old Mother died. You see, I was dropped into the village without any parents, a castaway from heritage and respect.”
“What? You were orphaned?” Sheila said, frowning with distaste.
I met her eyes and saw that hers had filled with disbelief, but also distain. She’d almost withdrawn from the closeness we’d sort of been developing.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Even today, I don’t have a last name. I was lower than the town drunk and had become the servant girl of everyone. In fact, that’s how I survived. When the town fathers discovered me, bundled in rags, it was arranged that I would spend a year with selected families, none of which wanted me. I was a burden many of my childhood years, and I was always unwanted.”
“That is dreadful,” Sheila said methodically, but I could feel that in her eyes I’d become even less of a person than before. She’d discarded me as a nonperson, like those in my village. But that was nothing new to me.
I trudged on with my tale because telling her my story was not about me, but about picking up one’s self and through tenacity or obstinacy finding that one could change what the Fates had delivered.
“As I got older,” I continued. “I went back to my earlier homes and worked as hard as I could to try to make up for being a burden. Probably at age five, I wasn’t a great help, but I did what I could until I was physically able and mature enough to be of greater assistance. By the time I landed at Old Mother’s house, I was babysitting, cleaning houses, cooking meals, and gardening for my foster families.”
“But you didn’t owe anyone for bringing you up. That should have been . . .”
She stopped, envisioning it herself, remembering, probably, how much work there was in handling a baby, a toddler, or a small child still unable to take care of herself.
“You said you moved in with someone called Old Mother,” Sheila said. “Why did you call her that? Did she adopt you and become your mother?” Sheila asked, wrinkling up her nose just slightly as if asking a question showed she was invested in my story.
I let out a super big sigh. “She was everything to me, summed up by the word love, the first time I’d really felt any. Old Mother taught me to be the person I am today. She was an herbal witch, you know, a green witch, who . . .”
Sheila let out a gasp at the word witch. I shouldn’t have used that word. I should have called Old Mother a medical advisor or an expert in herbs. Anything but witch.