It began on that day of the robbery. No, more precisely, it began a hand or so previous to that, if I trace back through memory and fate's particular sense of order. Pink started it all in fact. A bright pink wagon that I used as my beacon to guide me to the vicinity of Master's wagons. Taking an uncommon path from the main fire toward that brilliant girlish color, I had jigsawwed past many unfamiliar clusters of families, occasionally climbing up a wheel and railing to check my progress and assure that my compass remained pointed 'pink'. Two left turns found me in a central clearing with a startled group of women checking out the new arrival. On the opposite side of a wagon, holding a tray just above her rounded belly, I saw my friend Shel -a woman I had not seen in ages. Time, circumstance, and the constantly changing neighborhoods of wagons through countless moves had kept us apart for so long that I stood staring, somewhat in surprised shock to see her. A year or two ago, I would have raced into a welcome warm embrace, but her look of shocked puzzlement, probably much like my own, kept us stock still right where we were for many heartbeats. Finally, we closed the gap.
I knew instantly it was a mistake.
The tray she held remained stock still and firmly gripped with both hands, affording no opening for much contact and so I merely touched with the tips of my fingers to her forearm while blathering on about how nice it was to see her, inquiries about her children, delight in the coming arrival of a baby. Did her shoulders square up more firmly as she withdrew her eyes from me to settle upon the clearing? Were the short answers an attempt to get to her party, or to break this communication? I would wonder about this later, but at the time the awkwardness build up like a sudden thick fog between and around us, clawing at ankles and swirling upward to choke away fondness before it reached its destination.
I assumed the position of a slave.
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