The Gift

    She heard them before she saw them, the gaggle of children pouring off the school bus, 4 of them, maybe 6, stair-step ages, 8, 9, 10--etc. In perfect synchronicity, laughing, dropping things--two of them dropped their backpacks at exactly the same moment, then kicked them with the same nonchalant kick, as if they were meant to be propelled by force rather than cinched tidily on each child's back.

    Well, nobody saw them, so what did it matter?

    But she saw them, saw the whole careless exchange, even saw a book--a book! slide out of a backpack into the gutter, the dry gutter, so she....or somebody...could be thankful for that. No rain for a month, no snow, and New Year's come and gone, not an icicle in sight, not a cloud--and now, not a child. The daily discharge of noise and chaos already subsiding, and it was quiet again.

    Too quiet.

    Awful quiet.

    She meant to think awfully quiet, but couldn't control her grammar these days, much less her thoughts.

    Quiet. That's what she wanted.

    And then the doorbell rang--insistently, one, two, three times.

    She grabbed her shawl, the long black one that covered most of her scars, yelled, "I'm coming!" Wanted to say, "Stop the damn ringing" when the bell sounded again.

    Couldn't get the sound of her voice out, but she got the door open, flung the door open, ready to yell, "What is it?" ....but only "What" escaped her mouth, and that not as loudly as she would like.

    "What?" (Too sharp this time.)

    "This," the boy whispered and opened his hand. "I think it's yours."

    "It" was a marble, a big marble, a ruby colored marble with silver swirls, the marble she hid from her brother in that same garden long ago, years ago when she had clear blue eyes, and maybe even the gentle smile this child wore.

    "NO," she said, already shouting No before she took in the existence of the marble, her jewel, my jewel, she'd called it. 

    The boy lurched back, rejected by the force of her voice, took a second step backwards when she reached for the marble. 

    "Thank you," she managed to say, raising her voice, her rasp.   

  

    "Thank you," she said again, took the marble, and closed the door, closed the door, didn't slam it.

    The marble fit in her hand like an old friend, a lost treasure, my ruby she had called it, my royal ruby. She sank into the chair by the door, bunched the shawl over her face, and wept.