ROCK IN THE OCEAN

Thrashing and banging up against me, I hold my ground.

 I can take it.

These scrawny, chaotic, pint-sized wisps of liquid spray, ganging up on me in their pack, becoming powerful forces, slapping up against my crumbly outer layer, trying somehow to knock me over, or maybe they're just running from some evil force trying to find shelter on the shore and I just happen to be in the way.

I feel for them, jumping all around me, skittish, frightened little foaming beings, bumping and racing towards the elusive sand, as if there's something there. Bouncing around my rugged shape, shooting up in the air and plopping down, exploding on top of each other, in their quest to make it to the beach unscathed, only to recede back to where they came.

Every now and then, on balmy days, they might become calm, engaged, at once focused, like through a macro lens, taking notice of my entire frame, hugging my perimeter, as if Mother Sky has sung them a lullaby.  That's when we merge, connect and sway together in perfect rhythm. The peaceful silence of the mist surrounds us. We are made of the same stuff.

 I stand steady among my flailing buddies, ever ready to protect, deflect and support their childlike rumblings. I am constant, my exterior a little worn for wear, pieces of me have been penetrated and chipped off through time and abuse. A little leaner and a bit more brittle, but solid as granite is my core and comforting to my companions of the sea.  They know I will always be there, even though my presence for all of us can be frustrating.

Sometimes the pressure will get to me and I feel shaky standing my ground. I worry I might cave and just break off.

It's then I soak up the rich, salty air and feel my base settling deep into the cool clay below... and once again reminded of what I am.

They smack up against me, testing, challenging, feeling emboldened in their gang.  They show me what I'm made of.  Like petulant children screaming for attention, "Hey, look at me, here I am.  Whatcha gonna do about it!"  Floundering, cajoling, sulking and then pounding headlong into my backside. SPLAT!

Ow! Right on my cleavage!

Ahh... they're at it again.  I know them well.  Bring it on.  I can take it.

ABANDONMENT

"You don't remember me." the soft, youthful voice says.

I look up, "Hi. Of course I do. I didn't recognize you at first with your hair up."

"You don't remember my name... Charmiana."

"I know. I remember."

Disbelieving eyes.

"I even wrote it down, before I came in, hoping I would see you today."

Charmiana has won my heart.

The curly lashed eight year old dreamboat I help with homework at the Homeless Shelter where she lives.

A tender, budding twig, sprouting just past four feet, with what appears to be a soft brillo pad blooming out the top of her delicately featured head.

Her pink jean jacket with girly designs on it, is tinged with soot, maybe from many wearings, maybe not all by her.

I'm learning more about myself than she might be learning from me.

She's restless, smart, but I sense the upheaval in her life. How long has she been here?  Can I teach her enough before she leaves?  Can she teach me enough?

I try to keep her focused on the task at hand, but when she has decided she's through, my feeble attempts to reel her back to work, are in vain and she clams up.

 Her attention has focused on the other kids with their study or play tools. Something's missing.  She wants what's not there.

"What is it?" I'm confused.

Gloomy, barely audible, "Tablet." as she eyes a young child at the next table, happily playing a video game on a tablet.

"What? Do you want a tablet?"

Shaking her head up and down.

"It's for the younger kids that don't have homework." I explain.

No response.

I'm learning just how ill-equipped I am at consoling this wandering heart. "If you do your work, you'll grow up to be independent and have what you want."  Oh, that's reassuring!  Did I just say that?  What does that mean to an eight year old whose been uprooted. How many times, I do not know.  Immediate gratification is what's being begged for, pouted for, longed for.  Helpless, I try again, digging into this delicate soul. I tease her gently and am rewarded with a heart grabbing, trying to hide, grudging smile, revealing a crooked tooth. A soundless giggle.  I think I hear her think, "Leave me be, I want to be miserable," And the door is slammed shut again.

Can I just take her home with me?"  Yeah, that'll do it, uproot her even more, this time from what's left of her family; mother and siblings.

Pursed lips, furrowed brows, tight jaw, refusing to speak, holding herself in tight, eyeing that tablet.

"Com'on, let's finish your homework."

Fruitless.

Now, buckets of salty drops come gushing out of her eyes, running down her cheeks, flooding my insides.

Deep recognition surges through me from long ago, another time, a lonely eight year old, like a vague dream revisited.

"I'm sad, can I have a hug?" I ask, as I hold her spindly limbs. "Thank you. I feel much better now."

As tears subside, I let her have space to herself as I tend to another child on my right.

Left on her own, she picks up the homework and starts working on it.  Silent.  As I turn to watch and give praise on the correct answers (she does know the work), once again the brooding takes over and the focus resumes on the smaller children. They have what she wants, the "tablet." Oh, if that were the only thing.

It's playtime and I manage to find a tablet for her.  "Look what I got. What do I get for this?"  I jest.

Softly, "Thank you."

"Do you want to play alone?"  She shakes her head, "No." "Do you want me to stay here?" Head shakes, "Yes." I melt.

As we play, the smile re-appears, revealing that one crooked tooth.  We're both smiling and laughing.

When I return in a week, I look forward to seeing her and yet part of me hopes she's not there, that her mother has found a way out, and into a new home. One of her own.