Monday, February 27, 2012

Timed Writing 2/24/2012

Time: 10 minutes
Source Photo: [untitled]

"Shall I help you find your mother?"

"I haven't got a one," the little girl replied.

I had been watching her, intermittently, from my seat at the periphery of the spring-leafed circle of trees surrounding the duck pond. She was throwing pebbles into the water, along with ten or twelve other children when I arrived for my daily sit down with book. The afternoon wore on and I ate several slices of sharp cheddar and drank water from a glass bottle. As the sun fell among the boughs and branches of the far bank, one mother or nanny after another gathered up her charge or brood and departed.

Finally, in that barely full-light before sunset, only the little girl and I, a man fifteen or twenty times her age, remained. The last mother to leave the pond had strapped her infant into a wheeled agglomeration of plastic and metal and nylon fabric and walked away, seemingly unaware of the child left standing by the edge of the shallow water, scooping up pebbles by the handful and strafing the clear surface.

When I could no longer make myself believe that someone might return for her, I packed up my things into the pockets of my coat and went to speak with her. That was the beginning of how, at the age of seventy-five, I came to be the companion of a child of four -- a child from nowhere.

(about my timed writing exercises)

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