Three goats

May 19, 2013

The doorbell rang incessantly in the late, finally dry afternoon. Took me quite some time to check at the front door although Tyrus was barking at the back. Thru the large front rooms and into the kitchen to the back door on my two sticks to discover three little urchin girls all with their caustic glowing jelly sandals on the wrong feet, pressing and pressing impatiently. The tallest, presumably the eldest, wearing a muted Easter colored strapless dress with the back a bit undone has a terrible speech impediment. I mumble my final attempt at a reply and hope my face doesn’t express my deepest sympathy for her. John John (though don’t quote me on the spelling,) the second tallest reedy girl had her hair pulled up tight, bunched into big yellow balls looped around the frizz. Globe eyes stared at me, and I suspect, asked if the dog could play. The first two were very startled by Tyrus’ size and skirted him while pudgy, bleach-stained denim dress with a large cow on the front pig-like expression youngest grabs ahold of Tyrus’ fur to gently pet and pet him while his soft winter coat floated down to cling desperately to her clothes. Maya’s fat outstretched chocolate arms barely contained their joy. She babbled incomprehensible words with withered front teeth that astounded me. Several times during the hour or so they were in and out of my place her mouth was knocked, as though a magnet for disaster or to drawn attention and deep cause for concern to them. Her mother screeched from upstairs to stop being a baby and “STOP THAT CRYING NOW!” I wanted to snatch her to my breast and comfort the wee one. Her calf eyes filled with gigantic tears and grimy hands plastered to her mouth in palpable agony. How can one not notice her rotting baby teeth and oversensitive tender mouth not to mention the simple fact that they appear to have been attacked by miniature beavers on gnawed wood?

The girls followed one another through my space in a dance line. They asked “What is this?” in the bathroom, bedrooms and kitchen, far from my propped leg on the loveseat cushions. “Bring it to me so you can show me what you are asking about.” My Woman Super Hero lunchbox, a First Nation Tribal beaded purse, Taelor’s hermit crab tank, pictures of Taelor when she was little like them, candle holders and small bottles of perfume. “I never had a lunchbox, this purse is pretty can I open it and have it, how does the tank open, where is your girl, can you hear us upstairs, I go to school at mumble, mumble, my teacher has a calendar like this one, who is that, my dad says I can have a dog but I like the little ones, we are moving to New Orleans and on and on.”

The thin gaunt one climbed inside the yawning emptiness of the bookshelf before it is cleaned and put back together…all of them followed her full of fat juicy grins and a bit of shoving. They laughed in delight as I admired their cleverness.

“Sister has to go to the bathroom” After insisting she could use ours they all raced and bunched in together. “Did you wash your hands?” “No,” out she comes, hands foaming with soap. “Go back and rinse and rub like this until it is all gone.” Out she comes with hands to her nose, smelling the luscious soap. Then Number Two decides it is her turn.

After filing out one-by-one and telling me they will see me tomorrow they peak into my room from the back porch and ask me what I am doing, the middle girl begins to ring the bell over and over until I become exasperated and ask the two sisters and cousin to please stop so I can rest my broken leg. Silence ensues.