Little Orphan A

Some days, little Orphan A has a family. And some days she doesn't. She spends her time window browsing, and imagining somethings out of nothings from the reflections of clouds in shop windows. No one has a more active imagination than little Orphan A.

Once, little Orphan A saw some parents at a flea market. They were on sale at 30% off. It occurred to little Orphan A that the parents in question looked awful lonely, like they wanted a child as much as she wanted some parents. She would have been over-joyed to take them home, but the salesman wouldn't let her pay in stories and dreams, and so little Orphan A looked on.

Little Orphan A never cries when she falls down, she never gets angry at other children, and she never raises her voice. She's never thrown a temper-tantrum, never cursed in a bathroom corner, and never once told a lie. She has no one to tell a lie to. Instead, she makes paper cranes on string and hangs them on strangers' fence posts.

She often remembers faces from the past, glimpses of memories that play tag with her mind. She often tries to catch them, but sometimes she tries to forget them. She writes them down, though, and puts them into songs. She sings the songs at night as she tries to fall asleep. No one knows these songs but her.

There is no one more resourceful or self-sufficient than Little Orphan A. She can cook and clean, arrive on time, and find a way to get just about anywhere. She can even drive (though she doesn't have a driver's license) - her feet can almost touch the pedals. She even pays bills, but doesn't know what any of them are for.

She is a friend to everyone. She belongs to no one. She doesn't trust that anyone will stick around, but when they do, she sticks around too. She can talk to animals and fade in and out through walls. She doesn't like it when voices are raised, but she can turn the voices into symphonies. Little Orphan A can conduct an orchestra.

Little Orphan A is quite quiet - she never makes a sound. But you can hear her in the crunch of autumn leaves and the sloosh of rain boots in puddles. And in the stillness of the evening, when the cat meows at the front door to be let in for supper, you might spy the last wisps of her hair as she runs out of site. And your heart might say, "You can stay here, Little Orphan A. You can stay right here."

If you say it enough, she will come.