Return to: AwarenessABUSED
The air under the old farmhouse is still and moist. The hard red Georgia clay smells of summer rain. The little girl is quiet, her back against the chimney base. Hot tears roll, un-wiped, down her dusty cheeks as she rocks slowly back and forth. Soon, the cool dampness of her hiding place will ease her troubled spirit; her thoughts will turn to dreams, and she will lie down to sleep. No one in the house knows where the little girl is hiding. No one cares.
Shirley Alexander © 2006
