Trust

Published in The Storyteller, Jul/Aug/Sep 1999


Aw, do we have to take her the older kids whine,
she’ll only get in the way.
The tops of my shoes are all that I see
as my stepmother replies.

I’ve got too much to do and she’ll be under foot,
just give her a stick and string.
The group stomps off, their fishing fun
shot by the tag-a-long.

The path to the river is winding and long,
my legs are too short.
At last we are there, I sit by the edge
resting my weary feet.

The oldest, as a joke, gives me a stick
with a string and a hook.
He puts on a worm that twitches and jerks,
good luck brat they laugh.

I sit on the edge with my feet in the stream,
my makeshift pole in hand.
With a tug I slip forward, almost fall in the water,
something splashed it’s tail at me.

Squealing with delight, I pull my stick back,
a monster plops into my lap.
The oldest boy runs, bucket in hand,
and scoops up my prize.

Back to the house we run, never slowing
my fish they must show.
My stepmother smiles, what a wonderful fish
dinner will be so great.

I don’t understand what my fish has to do
with the food on the table.
The oldest boy grins with a hammer in hand
and grabs my poor fish by the tail.

In that one instant I learned a hard lesson;
older people just can’t be trusted.