For All the Crumbs in My Pocket

The creeping cold of river in her shoes is the only thing that stills her stride. So fewer steps from the treehouse now that she’s older— taller.  So much less time. 

Her crumbs weigh heavy in her pocket, sinking her into the mud.  An aching grumble ripples up from her hollow stomach.  The cost of repentance— or so she’s been told.  Forgiveness is another animal.  

But this comes first.  She has to turn the fabric inside out to free all the crumbs in her pocket.  They rest a moment in her hand. Water rushes away, away.  Racing for the ocean.  

She hopes it’s far enough.

One for a dented bumper. Three for the lies that hurt.  Another for her poor, neglected mother.  A sixth for the letter she never wrote.

The last has a jagged edge, scraping over the pad of her thumb as she rolls it between her fingers.  She thinks of the fractured heart that once beat in her hands.  Tucking the bit of bread back in her pocket, she has room for a small smile. 

And one for the sin that will always be her own.