“Children are like wet cement: whatever falls on them makes an impression."Haim Ginott
World Traveler
Her guests gather at the garden party,
admirers, distant family, anyone who
has heard about her glorious travels.
Her words fit
like jewels set in fine gold,
impeccable, precise.
All listen mesmerized as
Arabia, China, Australia, Egypt
find space among the common
folding chairs.
She waves her hands
and the pyramids
seem to appear
from the tips of
long, tapered fingers
as she describes the exotic
with a practiced voice.
A toddler tugs at her skirt
“Mama. Up. Now?”
The traveler looks into
the small arena. Ears
catch a tale touting the
memory of elephants.
She begins a story
about the dangers of desert,
dry, miles of hot sand,
no water, no human contact
for miles, or days.
The child, silent,
seeks the lap of a stranger.
The stranger understands.
She strokes the girl's head,
and imagines stroking her own.
terrypetersen 