I should have gone on a hunger strike or tried another crying jag, but my mother insisted there are people beyond the compound who will benefit from having me in their lives. The hours of reading under my favorite tree, watching the clouds drift lazily above. Why didn’t I refuse to go? Already I miss afternoon meal and the dancing that followed. Buildings that reach toward the sky, billboards advertising radio stations. My fingers fold the hem of my white, flowery skirt over and over, my eyes wide as sights I never expected to see in real life whiz past. So here I am, riding a bus south to Los Angeles, my clothes, a blanket, and a wallet containing five hundred dollars in a satchel at my feet. I never would have left it, either, except my mother decreed that my gift needed to be shared with the world. My childhood was happy and full, and I never wanted for anything. If we were either of those things, so be it. My mother, father and I lived in a small cabin on the California property we shared with several other families. My parents and the life they gave me on the compound was full of affection, selfless gestures. Those were my first encounters with love. My father making the perfect s’more and handing it to me, laughing at the inevitable marshmallow mess. Warm hugs from my mother, her nimble fingers weaving daisies through my hair. Filed to story: The Husband Sitter by Jessa Kaneįor as long as I can remember, I have been in love with love.
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