Word Count: 662
“Look, you just can’t play here anymore,” I said. He looked at me without saying a word.
“Really,” I persisted, trying to ignore the large lump of bad I felt hanging around me. I hated being forced into acting like the Wicked Witch of the West. It wasn’t fair. But this was the third time I’d asked the boy not to dig on my property. He had a red plastic beach shovel and pail. I hadn’t said anything the first couple of times hoping he’d give up and go away. This was the reason I was so happy to move out of the city. Thrilled to finally be able to own my own home on two acres of land.
“Where do you live?” I asked and he pointed down the road. “The yellow house?” and he nodded. “Why are you playing here? You have a nice big yard of your own and you probably shouldn’t be crossing the street. It’s not safe.”
“Lookin’ for my mom,” he said. He wouldn’t look at me and he stood there with the shovel and pail hanging down.
“She isn’t here,” I said, “but why don’t you play in your own yard. You really shouldn’t be digging up here.”
He left and I felt horrid. I’ve never had strong maternal instincts, never been one to be awed by other people’s kids. But I’m not a bad person, I’d never be mean to a child. I just don’t know how to talk with them, I suppose. How to play games or join in. I always felt awkward, as if I were trying too hard.
Three days later I came home to find him digging in my yard again. He looked up as I drove in the driveway. Skulked off before I got out of the car. I did stall, it’s true, pretending to gather up my purse and things before I opened the door.
“Why don’t you just talk to his parents?” was the suggested tactic from several people at work. But I was new to the neighborhood. Didn’t want to start off by complaining. No one had brought over fresh homemade brownies when I moved in so it didn’t look like the friendliest group. Which was fine; I’d wanted privacy. I’m sure they’d help out if needed, as I would be willing to do.
I never saw him there again but it was obvious he was still digging in an area a few feet inside my property line. It’s where I wanted to put in a garden and thought maybe I should start on it right away. Maybe he wouldn’t be so determined if he saw it was carefully tended and not an abandoned far edge of the lawn.
It was a sunny September Saturday morning. One wheelbarrow full of sod and the dirt piled to the side. Hostas and pachysandra and a little Japanese maple waited patiently as I dug up the soil in a fairly straight line. I looked up and the boy was watching me.
I felt guilty so I waved him on over. He stood shyly looking into the trench as I dug. “You can help, if you want,” I told him. It made me feel kind of good. We dug side by side for a few minutes when my shovel struck stone.
He looked up at me, then back down at the soil.
“Pirate treasure!” I said. A perfect example of why I don’t do well with kids. It was a piece of quartz or mica, most likely. I just hoped it was pretty enough to pass as some sort of treasure.
He got down on his hands and knees in the dirt and started uncovering the rock with his fingers. Then he stopped, stood up and I was startled to see tears well up in his eyes. I looked down and saw the obvious round creaminess of bone. “Ma,” he whispered. And I hugged him as hard as I could.
