WHO DEFINES REALITY?

Petra and I were playing with dolls when the “boys” came for us.  Petra, a foster child newly come to our household, was just barely growing back a head full of thick black hair, having been shaved bald initially due to lice and other unfortunate symptoms of previous foster homes.  She jumped up to join the “boys”, in a naive trusting manner only a newcomer to the household would display.  

I, on the other hand, sought for an escape.  Where could I run.  Where could I hide?  That the “boys”, four teenage boys made up of Marty and Richard, two of my real brothers, and David and Clovis, two Mexican foster kids, would pay any attention to two 8 year old girls, was alarming.  That they displayed a heightened sense of excitement was outright terrifying.  

I ran.  Out the door, barely squeezing between teenage boy legs, I took the turns at full speed, grabbing on to furniture to help me navigate to the door.  I made it!  Just a few more turns through the pantry then navigating the steps that separated the side yard from the front yard, I ran as fast as my long spindly knobby need legs could carry me.  
I was almost to the woods, the safe place I ran to when I was scared, when my brother Richard called to me.  Richard was the only person in the entire world that had never hurt me. . . yet.  Richard had a heart.  Richard was kind.  Richard would let me hang out while he conducted his “experiments”, such as transplanting red ants into black ant hills, or visa versa, and watching the epic wars that occurred.  I always got bit by the ants, and ended up crying, but Richard would wipe away my tears and tell me stories of the hero ants that fought so valiantly.  
Richard gave me lessons on how to sound like a machine gun while holding sticks, so I could hang out and play War with the neighborhood kids and not be laughed at.  I never did join them.  It was safer to watch from the protective branches of a tree in the woods, than risk being noticed.  But it was nice to be able to make the sounds later, when I was alone.  

I felt the pull from the safety of the woods, but his gentle eyes pulled more.  I continued forward, pausing, holding my breath, then step by step, I approached him, reached out, hesitated, then slipped my hand into his.  Only then did I understand what he was saying. “We found something!  We want you to look at it.”  He explained.  “You’re both young enough, we want to see if you can see it too.  We’re convinced that adults can’t see them, but children can.  Come, help us out.” His kind eyes glowed with excitement as he explained.

I nodded, a short curt nod, then followed him obediently and trusting, through the side yard, past the orchard, and on out to the empty field that marked the border of our yard and the woods beyond.  I would do anything for Richard.  
Petra was already there, peering through the bushes that surrounded a huge boulder the size of a small house, that had been left behind by some geologic ice age event.  Connecticut was riddled with rock walls, boulders, and empty fields left over from failed farming attempts to cultivate the harsh regions.  

Petra moved away a short way, and ordered me to have a look.  I leaned over, and saw something move.  As I leaned closer, peering into the overgrown foliage surrounding the rock, I  saw it!  What I saw, in a hole that went beneath the boulder, was a miniature little man, the size of a small rat.  He was wearing a red hat, and green tunic.  I couldn’t see if he was wearing pants or shoes, because he was half in and half out of the little hole, but I could see him moving, very, distinctly, moving, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  

I forgot to breathe, I was so mesmerized.  I followed his movements for quite a while, watching him repetitively move, trying to see what he was doing.  What was he doing?  What miniature tasks had him so focused, he didn’t even see these giant humans surrounding his tiny abode?  

Then I heard the laughter, the groans from the “boys”, and the accusations from Petra.  She, apparently, had found the string they were using to make the miniature toy move.  She was not stupid.  She was not as naive as I.  She was not looking for the secrets to the underworld of miniature beings.  She was anchored, soundly, in this world of humans, and had no secret wish for other worlds to exist.  She had discerned the motivations of the humans, and had found the string.  

I sat by the rock, long after they all went back to the house, laughing and joking, the mystery solved.  I sat alone and forgotten, no longer needed, and as I sat, I felt an unfamiliar emotion well up inside me.  Was it disappointment, that the miniature being was nothing more than molded plastic?  Was it embarrassment, that I had been so thoroughly tricked that I believed.  Oh I believed!  Yes, I believed.  Or was it anger, at the sensible, pragmatic, reality once more encroaching on my life?  I wanted to believe.  I wanted there to be another world intersecting ours that I could escape to, and find companionship I did not need to fear.  

I still look for the little being among boulders and tree roots.  I still wish to believe.  Oh, how I wish to believe.  Why did she have to find the string?  Do my beliefs have to be rooted in reality for me to find comfort in believing them?  Who defines reality, anyway?  

By cindy
01/03/2020