Black &; White

I sit on the blue and green plaid blanket watching the children grow
smaller and smaller as they run off towards the tree line that
encircles the park. Nevermind the swings, the slides, the plastic and
metal structures built solely for the purpose of pleasuring toddlers
and fourth-graders alike. My children would rather indulge themselves
in an adventure, a trek into the spooky-but-enticing "forest",
exploring rarely used dirt paths and inventing stories to explain the
mysterious Coke can crinkled and thrown carelessly into the overgrown
brush.


Just as I notice that the unsightly monstrous wooden fort has
finally been torn down (I vaguely remember the yellow caution tape
draped around the condemned contraption last summer), he walks up to me
and hands me a single wilted wild flower, commonly known as a weed here
in Texas.


"Can I have a cookie?" he asks. I see him throw a quick but
unintentional glance at the picnic basket sitting to my left, and then
back at me. I had left the lid open and, unbeknownst to me, had been
advertising two unopened six-packs of Oreo cookies to what amounted to
at least forty salivating children. I look up to see his dark
silhouette against the backdrop of the sun resting wearily on the gray
horizon.


"Of course you can have a cookie. Is this for me?" I ask as I
reach to take the gift from his tiny brown hand.


"Uh-huh."


I see a woman walking quickly towards me, and I'm not sure,
but at this moment I believe her to be the person tasked with looking
after this young creature. Her eyes reflect the care and concern of a
mother, but I can't help but notice that she is of another ethnic race
- he is black and she is white. Her pace slows as she approaches and
I'm able to make out a subtle smile as she stops and observes. She
doesn't seem to mind my exchange with this small boy, who couldn't be
much older than six.


"Hi. Is it okay if he has a cookie?"


"Sure, if you don't mind." Her hair is a short brown
masculine cut, and except for the occasional gray strand she looks very
young - despite not wearing any makeup. I don't see a wedding ring, and
I'm a little ashamed that that's one of the first things I notice.
After all, there hasn't been a ring on my finger in a long time, and
I've managed two children alone just fine.


I turn my attention back to the boy, whose attention is still
on the picnic basket. I reach for the object of his longing, and I can
tell he's finding it difficult to stand still as his excitement builds
watching me tear into the wrapper. I try to hurry for him, but fumble
clumsily for a moment or two until it finally gives and three of the
cookies spill onto my lap.


"What's your name," I ask as I gently place some of the
cookies in his cupped hands.


"Kendrick. Kendrick Pickens, and that's my mom, Sara
Pickens."


"Well, I'm Terre, and I'm glad to meet you
Kendrick."


"Say thank you," his mother gracefully instructs, and he
obeys as he crams the first of the cookies in his
mouth.


"Thank you for the flower. It's beautiful. Did you pick this
just for me?" By this time I can tell he has a learning disability, and
I feel my insides melting and find myself wanting to hug him, this
Kendrick.


"Uh-huh. I fount it right over there?"


"Honey, tell Ms. Terre goodbye. We need to be going." I can
sense that she's feeling as though she's disturbing me, that's she's
intruded too much already. Kendrick looks at me, grins so big I can see
the black and white of the cookies clinging to his teeth, and slowly
puts his hand up as if to say goodbye. Our eyes stay locked as he steps
over my blanket to follow his mother, and then he finally turns
away.
I watch my new friend walking away from me, and I watch Sara, too. Did
someone give Kendrick away? Was his biological mother not able to care
for him? Did she give him away in one ultimate act of love in knowing
this, or was she merely disappointed at his birth because the doctors
knew of his defect? As I grab the neglected book I brought with me to
the park, I wonder what she would think if she could meet Kendrick
today.


I see something from the corner of my eye moving quickly. In
one swift motion I try to look up to see what could be traveling in my
direction at what seemed like the speed of light, but before I can make
out anything at all I feel two tiny arms wrap themselves tightly around
my neck and shoulders. Instinctively I put my arms up and feel them
slowly make their way around him also, and I don't want to let go. I
know that in this moment - this one, single moment - I get to
experience the love, in all it's innocence, that Kendrick has to give.
Love that even his own birth mother will never experience. As I feel
his grasp loosen and his body begin to fall away from mine, he looks at
me one last time and then leans down to kiss my cheek. One final smile,
and he again runs away to catch up with Sara.


I find myself watching them again. I wonder if he'll come
back, but as they move further away from me I realize he won't. I try
once again to read my book, with Kendrick still hanging around in my
mind.


"Whatcha reading, Mom?" my son asks.


"Oh, just a book I brought. Are you guys done? That was
pretty quick." The sun is starting to fall behind the trees now and I
know that reading is out of the question.


"Yeah, I know. I just came back to get a drink. Hey, who ate
all the cookies?"


"Well, I gave some to a little boy," I
answer.


"Who?" He looks surprised that I even know another boy
besides him, and even more surprised that I gave away all his
cookies.


"His name is Kendrick. He saw them and asked me if he could
have some. I hope that's OK."


"Yeah, it's OK. But who is he?" Christian
says.


"I don't know him, Christian. I never met him before. He just
walked by and saw them."


"Where is he?"


I look around to see if I can still spot Sara and Kendrick,
and I do. "He's right over there," I say as I point in the direction of
a boy frolicking about, playing with a three-foot tree branch. I see
the look on Christian's face, and I know that he knows, too. He not
only notices that Kendrick seems to be different in his level of
intellect, but also different than his mother.


"Mom, I think he must have been an orphan." How does he even
know what an orphan is? "I think that's sad."


I don't really know how to respond. I try feverishly to think
of something parental to say, to explain how and why things happen the
way they do. "Well, sometimes people give their children away because
they love them so much, and they know they can't care for them the way
they want to, so they let someone else take care of them who can." What
was that? What did I just say? I mean, I know I believe this, but how
will an eight year old understand what I just said? This seems harder
to explain than the two women he saw the other day holding hands and
kissing in the parking lot of Luby's.


"I would never give it away. If I had a baby, I would just
keep on trying no matter how hard it was. That's what love is,
Mom."


I just look at him and smile. I know he's too young to fully
understand. But does he have a point? I know with children there is no
gray, ironically just black and white. It is, or it isn't, plain as
that. And as I close my book I decide to just let this one go, and
wonder if instead of me teaching my son a thing or two about life if it
wasn't actually the insight of an eight year old clarifying some things
for me.