Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

you never have a reason to stop and think and mourn

lost childhood faiths.

The storm brought rain and shut out the stars. I

went to sleep early and didn't wait up for Thatcher,

who came home late anyway.

What a welcome brightness it was for me,

therefore, to be at the terminal gate the next day,

waiting for Amou to deplane. I had not seen her for so

long, and I was happy to see immediately that she had put on some weight. At five feet nine, she had always been on the thin side. When I was a little girl. I worried that she would wither like fruit on a vine and get blown away by a fierce wind. My adoptive mother was also tall, but so much more substantial-looking. perhaps because of her hard demeanor. Amou always looked like a lightweight in the ring with a

heavyweight when my adoptive mother confronted her. Why Amou staved with us so long. I'd never know. Anyone else serving such a demanding mistress would have long before found excuses to leave, I told myself it was only because of me. At

least. I hoped it was.

Amou wasn't as beautiful as my adoptive

mother, but my adoptive mother was jealous of

Amou's vibrantly red hair, which she kept long, down

to her shoulder blades. Often I would sit beside her in

her room while she untied her hair and brushed and

brushed it, telling me how important it was to care for

your hair. She had a secret formula for natural

shampoo that involved olive oil and eggs and other

things she wouldn't reveal, especially to my adoptive

mother, who constantly nagged her about cutting her

beautiful hair.

"Why do you bother keeping it so long if you always wear it tied up anyway? What a waste of your

time!" she would tell Amou.

Amou always nodded as if she agreed, but

ignored her. It was the way she handled my mother, a

way that made me smile to remember now. In her own

way. Amou was a better psychiatrist than my father,

or at least as good when it came to dealing with my

adoptive mother. She once whispered her secret to