Statistics

Statistics
copyright: Kandice Plain

"I don't have a mommy anymore." she said aloud as whispers
were heard across the playground; on jungle gyms and monkey
bars. On swing sets and sand pits. On slides and teeter totters.
On intercoms and headphones and car stereos.

Soon after, the laughter faded away, along with the little girls
self esteem.

Her tears fell hard enough, that one could think it was rain. A
flood of some sort. Little fingers wiping puffy red eyes because
of something she couldn't help. Because of two peoples ignorance.
Because of two peoples lack of motivation to talk out problems
and explain things to each other.

Its not like she chose to have this happen to her. Its not like she
chose to grow up being a statistic. A soon to be druggie. A soon
to be prostitute, gang member, child beater, molester or con artist.

After a day of melancholy, she went home to a trashed house.
Clothing sticking out of big black trash bags, boxes, hampers, and
Wal-Mart sacks. Family portraits thrown inside garbage cans, that
once hung on the wall near the shiny new dinner table they got.
Daddy was in the kitchen crying, while the Mommy was picking up bags
and taking them to her car. After the last bag was gone, she said a faint
'goodbye' and began walking out the door.

"Why wont you be my mommy anymore?" the little girl cried out, while
clinging to her mothers leg, with big tears falling out of her eyes.
"I'm sorry, kiddo," she said while patting her daughters head, just before
she took the girls hands off her legs, and walked out of the door.