On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren Read Free Book Online Page A

about the fire. The idea of these hills burning turns my stomach.
    Lightning Bob studies me carefully. “Tough one, isn’t it? Fire is natural, but fires of the magnitude they become now aren’t. Some burn so hot, they sterilize the soil.”
    I show Lightning Bob my cards. “Fifteen-two, fifteen-four,” he counts aloud for me. He pauses for a moment and adds, “Someone once said to me, ‘Water cleanses, but only fire purifies.’ I’m not sure I have much need for purification. I feel pure enough already.”
    I look out the window and see the sheep coming. I say a prayer that the wolves will stay away from them and that the shepherds will stay away from the wolves.
    “Fifteen-two, and a pair is four,” Lightning Bob counts.
    In my pocket, I play with a folded-up poem which I brought to share with Lightning Bob. When he gets up to go to the outhouse, I take it out and reread it:
    Your branches, like arms
Hold me like the mother you are to me now
Free of the judgment
And knowledge of my unworthiness
In the wind you rock me
And sing me lullabies with your leaves
Because you are not human
You do not push me away
And I do not resist you
Because you are a tree
You can connect me to
All the life that surrounds us.
    I decide not to share this one and go on my way.

Olive on Blue
(May 20)
    Oh, my God, it’s blue. It turned blue. I put the stick down on top of the toilet and walk into the living room. Maybe when I walk back in later, it will have changed back to pink. I water my plants. I turn on the TV. I turn it off. I turn it on again and flip through the channels without pausing long enough on any station to really judge any program as worthwhile or not. I walk into the kitchen, open the refrigerator, then shut it. I walk back into the bathroom and stare at the stick. It’s still blue. I shake my head and then let it drop like my dad does when he’s disappointed, disgusted, or in a state of disbelief about something stupid I’ve done. I feel all three. I raise my head and look at myself in the mirror. Instead of seeing my own eyes, I see my father’s, so deeply disappointed in me. Oh, oh! Pow! The nausea hits me just like that and I spew a small amount of watery puke in the sink. I stand a little longer, struggling with the dry heaves, then lean back against the bathroom wall and slide down, out of sight of my own reflection, out of view of my father’s judging eyes, down until I find relief by lying on the cold bathroom floor. My eyes fill with tears, and in doing so, they feel like my eyes again. Lord knows, I never saw Dad cry. I start to shiver, so I reach up and pull a bath towel off the rack to cover myself. How am I ever going to get through this alone?

Pearl on the Neighborhood
(May 26)
    I open my front door and greet the cool morning with a smile. My hair is pulled back in my favorite red scarf, the one that matches my bright red pedal pushers I wear so that my pants don’t get caught in my bike chain. I step out onto my porch, survey the sky around me, walk down my steps, and take the old Schwinn cruiser from where it was leaned against the porch. I drop my letter to Anna and some dog cookies in the flower basket on my handlebars. I walk my cruiser down the path from my house until I reach the driveway. I adjust my handgun holster so that my piece rides a little more toward my back and doesn’t get in the way when I pedal. I spot Beatrice, that early bird, out in the garden.
    “Beatrice! Would you like to ride to town with me?” I call to her.
    “No, thank you!” she calls back. “It looks like rain!”
    “Chicken!” I call to her as I hop on and begin the three-and-a-half-mile ride down the smooth clay road. I like the hum of my tires on the clay and enjoy seeing the pattern my tires leave in the silt-clay dust as I weave down the road, creating a giant serpent from my house to town.
    I pass the Hildebrands’ house. Erika Hildebrand has taken to collecting small livestock lately. I