Pill Bugs

The brightly colored rug in the middle of the room is normally filled with children.

Tiny legs positioned criss cross applesauce and desperate to wiggle and run and flee.

Breaths on necks and fingers inching toward pigtails and aimed at ribcages for pokes

and tickles. A pulsing collection of life nestled together for storytime or show and

tell filled with future executives, grocery store clerks, and addicts. The hopes

of countless adults resting in small children who are resting on primary colored

nylon fibers woven in a circle. 

The rug is empty now save for one. 

Sitting criss cross applesauce on the dot assigned despite the freedom of choice

that comes with an empty classroom. The teachers, soft and mild women who wear

clothes from Mervyns and hair from Dynasty, lean against the counter and discuss

their weekend plans. They are off the clock but stuck waiting for the last pick up.

This one is picked up late a lot, and they know they don't have to entertain or engage,

this one is self sufficient. This one with mousy brown hair spends recess sitting in the

grass, collecting pill bugs from the ivy, naming each one and calling them friends until

the bell rings and they are returned to their cool dark dirt in the shade of the green. If the

ivy is wet, this one sits in the concrete tube and pretends to be a squirrel living in a fallen

tree. Keebler Elf doors appear on each end, and the screams and sand of the playground

disappear. This one is requires nothing, asks for nothing, is easy, is good, is waiting to be

picked up again. 

Peering down at a tiny fist, but the largest it’s ever been, the fingers burn and sting. The

hand is cramped and aching. Numb in some parts and painful in others. The creased tunnel

created by curved fingers and palm is plugged periodically with the opposite finger. The

thumb creates a door that cannot be opened on the other end. There would be escapes

of course, but really the hand has frozen into position there so much that moving the small

thumb isnt even possible. 

Click-jingle-clack-jingle-click-jingle-clack. Small pierceless ears hear the known cadence

of a walk still 100 feet away. The child rises from the rug and retrieves a small yellow

backpack from the assigned hook. The teachers notice the movement and tell the child

to sit again, their mother isn’t here yet. 

“Yes she is, I hear her.” 

The teachers scoff and look at each other in dismissal of the small human so sure of

the impossible. The door opens a moment later and the mother appears. Tall, beautiful,

in heels and head to toe blue. Keys with keychain billy stick in hand, purse slung on

shoulder, large shiny earrings beneath perfect hair. Apologies and reasons emit in earnest,

the teachers assure the mother its no bother as they have their bags in hand and have

already hit the lights and headed for the door. 

Walking down the hall, a paved miniature cobblestone hall that resounds the click clack

of the heels so well that the child hears it so much sooner than the teachers, the child plods

along behind the mother, hand in hand, half dragged and half skipping. Right hand still

clenched and burning. Wordlessly arriving at the car, a red Ford Escort with grey interior

and melted purple wax in the backseat from a forgotten crayon that the child is still held

accountable and feels guilty for leaving. Half heartbroken for “ruining the car” half for ruining

the favorite purple crayon, rainbows forever incomplete, the most wonderful color gone forever. 

The mother sees the fist. Sees the child for the first time and sees the fist first of all. 

A question.

A non-response. 

The question again. 

A non-response because a lie is bad and the truth will results in a tragic outcome for the child. 

THE NAME SAID STERNLY. 

The tiny hand, chubby and sweaty is brought forward. 

A command. 

The tiny hand turns over, fingers still curved and now facing the sky. Slowly, not due to

disobedience but due to muscle fatigue, the fingers practically squeak open. With great

pain in palm and heart the fingers ease open, the air hitting the skin for the first time in

hours, relief and distress all at once. Also all at once, the release of the low estimate of

20 pill bugs. Small brown eyes tear and wince as they view the departure of the family

created in her mind. The curved shiny charcoal colored bodies and grey see-through

bellies scurry their legs over the soft pink hand directed to rest against the decorative

bushes framing the school gateway.

DISGUST. HORROR. DISBELIEF. The mother is not understanding. 

The small body and mind is relieved to be relaxed for the first time since the collection

was made at recess. Through snack and storytime, nap, and free play, potty trips, and

a game of tag, the hand had protected and imprisoned these little creatures, not one

injured or killed, all kept interned but not interred. No one to talk to now. No one to play

with. No one to hold and feel the touch returned twenty fold even if by insect leg measure.

The small heart is broken though. The friends and family created fleeing and disappearing

like the human ones do.

Alone again and always.