Mother Merry

I grew up in what you might call a group home. It wasn’t exactly an orphanage. There were lots of kids and lots of moms who weren’t moms looking after us. No one belonged to anyone else, we were all just there together. Some would come and stay for a little while, some would go and never come back. It was kind of scary but it was kind of exciting.

There were always lots of colors, so many that it sometimes hurt my eyes. Lots of lights and glitter, like Wonderland.

On special days or bad days, if I asked for Mother Merry, one of the non-moms for her. Those were the days I asked for Mother Merry. She didn’t come around very often and, unlike the other non-moms, she wore simple colors of black and white and she shimmered like an angel. She was quiet, like me, with a soft smile. She looked sad sometimes when she looked at me but it still made me happy to see her, our eyes matched. I didn’t match anybody else in Wonderland.

On my birthday, I drew her a picture. I love to draw and last year she brought me pretty pencils. I hide them from the other kids so they don’t get broken. This year, for my birthday, I drew Mother Merry a special picture of me and her. It wasn’t flashy like Wonderland, I didn’t use any glitter or gems. Sometimes, we like to be plain, to be who we are under all the colors and sparkles. So, I drew us like we are with matching eyes.

I thought I’d done it wrong when I gave it to Mother Merry because it made her cry. I didn’t mean to make her cry. Her crying made me cry, too. I told her I was sorry for hurting her feelings but instead of being cross she smiled and hugged me.

She said I hadn’t hurt her feelings at all but had really made mother very happy.