There Was A Little Girl . . .

There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. And behind that curl was a confused mind. Call it Reactive Attachment Disorder, call it bi-polar, call it a bad hair day. Her life was a tangled web, complicated by type one diabetes. Meters and needles were her morning. Coma tugging at her elbow should she eat a slice of cake at a birthday party. “Should I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take!” And the Lord stood ready beside her bed each night because it was never assured that her precious blue eyes would open in the morning.

Her birth mother had lost her years before. Grandmother stepped in and gave up all for this little girl. As she lay in coma, grandmother held her little hand, lest she die alone. She’d been alone all her life, and grandmother was determined that she would feel the hand of a friend on the way out.

She lived that day. Grandmother adopted her, and her brothers. A man came into to picture. A highly decorated soldier who gave all of his medals, ribbons, and benefits to the little girl and her brothers when he died so that she, and they would never want for anything be it food, or shelter, or insulin. All seemed right.

But there was a dark cloud in this silver lining. No one ever told the little girl about “Real MaMa!” She had no memory of her, and grandmother led her to believe that as it is, it always was, and forever will be. Life was hard enough as it was. In a world where her next morning was not assured, “Real MaMa” could wait!

But, there are people who won’t let sleeping dogs lie. Instead of letting the little girl grow up, with a wealth of memories, and search for her own answers, they chose to tell her all about “Real MaMa!” It was more than she could bear, and she had a relapse. She descend into confusion and anger as she lost what little identity she had, and she had to begin again.

What is family? Who is “Real MaMa,” or daddy, or brother, sister? Is it the narcissist who fled, who lost custody, or the “grandmother” who didn’t share one strand of DNA yet sat beside the bed of a dying child because there was no one else? The person who will pick up the pieces of a shattered little life and will now showily, lovingly put Humpty Dumpty back together again? And take her to the salon to make sure that little curl is just right.

The Butcher Shop

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