Here is the next part of the story. If you haven't read the beginning, it starts here.
Turning the page of the scrapbook and continuing on towards the arrival of Quinn, we see that the next photograph comes from my elementary school days. There is a photo of myself as a young girl attending the yearly Father’s Day family reunion picnic. I look around at the crowd and see a distant relative who cares for youth who are developmentally disabled. I have seen this woman before, but do not know her name. From this photograph it is obvious what I am thinking, I want to look, am drawn to look at them, but yet feel uncomfortable – like I shouldn’t be so interested. I wonder what it must be like to care for a child who has a disability. How would that feel? Why do people do it? Who is this woman, and why does she take care of these children? I try to concentrate on the conversation happening around me – to distance myself from these thoughts, but I keep going back to watching this woman and these youth. I feel uncomfortable, yet intrigued. Did I know deep down that someday this would be my fate? Or is this just a normal reaction when noticing those who are “different?” There is another twist of fate in my story – I was once the person who could not stop staring, and now I will be the one that others stare at.
The names of grasses
14 hours ago