Feeding the needy

3 girls dressed in vintage 1920 flapper dresses, sitting on a bench. Feet furiously pushing, pushing the petals to an old pump piano. Girls singing at the top of there lungs as the pump piano wheezes & hums My Rag Time Gal. Singing and singing till the fair lights come on & the old mansion shuts down for the evening.

Laughter.

What you see are children, raising a motherless child.

Brandy, Brenda, Jenny, Diane, Mindy, Drew, Noel, Jen. Names that go on and on. Were these children aware of their impact? Teenagers who stepped up to take me in when my mother died, as a father mourned.

They held me accountable to my actions. They ran along side of me as I fled from my earthy worries. They grab hold of my shoulders & spoke fiercely into my brain. Focusing me onto my path I needed to take. Holding down my grief, they scooped it out with their hands only to have me face it, then helped me bade it goodbye.

Encouraging me to do difficult things. Yelling at me when I got down on myself. Pushing me onto the stage when I couldn't breath. And holding my hand as I screamed into the dark.

We give children too little respect. While adults hemmed & hawed about my grades, college plans & how much sleep I got. Teenagers filled my soul with friendship and life. Pushed me back onto my own 2 feet. Held me up while I wobbled precariously on the edge of childhood and adulthood. Madness & sanity.

I was raised by a pack of giggly, wild, intelligent, strong, carefree & loving group of misfit teens. Teens who crushed me with their protective arms. Teens who allowed me to borrow their breath, their happiness, their strength.

I am the lucky one.