Her crying stops, she lets go of her skirt and encircles my waist with her arm pushing her hot face into my rapidly cooling skin. I stroke her hair wi...h the back of my hand and whisper soothing sounds. She nuzzles into me in response, her nose a damp caress contrasting with the fiery heat of her cheeks. The sobs in her throat have become murmured words; barely audible, unidentifiable sentences that her mouth forms and expels into the flesh of my breasts.“It’s okay.” Words fail her and the. I've always been good with children, perhaps that's why I grew up to do what my grandpa did, trawling my brightly colored hand-van with me everywhere I go and drawing crowds of prancing children who trade a dollar for delight. Now as I rest under a shady oak branch and the sun does its best to get at me, I watch them kick out of the yellow bus, often both feet landing at the same time and then prance away, or towards me, some boldly brandishing a coin, others shyly handing out a paper note, and. More

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