The little girl had hair the same cherrywoodcolor as hers. That same broken look to her eye.

"You'll be the artist, the writer," she told her, "you'll be the one that they clamor and clap to receive."

The girl wiped the tear that hung on her lashes. She said, "Don't matter none to me. They ain't nuthin'."

The teacher swallowed the words whole, felt them ache in her belly and before the girl could retreat, reached out and touched her dry cheek.