B - Thyme Storm

Sitting cross-legged in the grass of her front yard, Thyme slipped
into the haze that so often fell in her mind.

"What is she doing out there?"

"Sitting. she likes storms." It was her mother's voice, and someone
else she didn't recognize.

"It's dangerous out there. She could wind up with pneumonia, or be
struck by lightening."

Thyme laughed deep in her chest. How could a storm harm her?

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"She's only three, Sharon. Make her come inside. She's not the adult
here."

"She's certainly not a child, Margaret."

"She's three!"

The strange voice was yelling now. There was no reason to yell. She
stood and walked in to the house, into the kitchen where the stranger
sat with her mother. Rainwater dripping on the linoleum, Thyme looked
at the woman. Then looked deeper. Then deeper, till she hit
bottom.

The stranger blanched, her eyes darting around the small room. Over and
over she tried to resettle in her seat, but still the child stared. She
knew. The ridiculous child knew. How could this happen? How could she .
. .?

Stuttering, she pushed away from the table and rose to leave, knocking
over the chair.

"She's not right, Sharon. She's not right. You need to get her some
help."

"She doesn't seem to have the problem," her mother replied, calmly
watching the stranger as she ran from the house.

Thyme turned and followed her out the front door, watching as she
resumed her place on the lawn, rain still pouring.

As the haze dispersed, Thyme thought back. She hadn't known good or bad
then, just like and didn't like. And she didn't like that woman.
Lifting her face to the rain, she waited for the thunder.