The KitKat Snatcher

November 12, 2013

DeJohn appeared tonight, knocking so softly on the front door, I nearly missed him. Caught sight of the back of him, racing down the sidewalk away from the house, going nowhere fast. He slammed in the door when I shouted for him, zipped into the kitchen with his shoes on, grabbing miniature KitKat bars from the bowl on the shelves before I could turn the corner. Upset that he doesn’t have manners enough to ask permission, most likely mom doesn’t set a good example for him, I let it go until the next visit, and heat water to make him some tea drizzled with honey to warm him up. “What is that?” he muttered, standing in front of the microwave oven. “It’s a microwave. We use it to heat up or cook food.” His interest wasn’t held for too long. He inhaled three or four chocolate bars, with Tyrus following in circles, around the pint-sized kitchen, hoping DeJohn will drop bits. I felt compelled to harness the nine year old anxiety by calling his mom but the doorbell rang before I could leave a voicemail to tell her DeJohn showed-up here. “Everyone is sick at the house so I am late, sorry” she exhales as the outer glass door opened. I assured her I am ok with DeJohn being here but am worried about the nights I am not home and he isn’t picked-up at the bus stop. I could lay out a sleeping bag for him and make sure the motion-detector light is on in the sun porch, when I leave in the early afternoons, but no one will be here to calm him, feed him and phone mom.

Concern for the bikers, out, with or without lights, in the center of the streets, in the chill of the 20 something night. Thinking about the homeless, huddled in the corners of the bridges, under cardboard boxes and hovered among the abandoned homes. I am so acutely aware of the car in the garage, radiator bubbling in the background, food in the cupboard, the remaining KitKat, a satisfied stomach and contented cat in my lap.