Danika pressed the paper and ran her arm along it, picking
up smudges of graphite, but removing any air pockets preventing the drawing
from adhering to the cardboard that would keep it safe, wrinkle free, and once
framed, preserved for as long as possible.
It was the last piece she had ever drawn. Not Danika, she
could draw an elevator shaft. Missy’s. Her work was on walls around the
country. No one had as complete a collection as Danika, though.
Missy had been more than the artist she commissioned to
document the children in her care. She was foster mother to most of them right
alongside Danika. The last three for certain had called her Mama Missy.
The faces of all her children, most of them now grown or
moved on to permanent residences, looked down on her from parks, yards and
gardens in the neighborhood. Missy was so good at capturing the familiar
expressions and antics among the familiar places.
“Mamanika?” a quiet high pitched voice said. “What is wrong?”
The dark skinned boy looked afraid.
Danika knelt, lifting Horace in her arms to show him the
picture.
“Mama Missy went to the park but she’s not coming back.”
Hopefully you can find some more cheerful teases on the blog.
