Kindness

     I was crying. The day was considerably nicer than the ones before, with sun and birds. The town was nicer too, with less gray and grime.
     A woman, hanging out her washing, came over to me.
     "What's wrong? You poor thing. You're so dirty, and thin as a rail! Come, you could use a good meal." She had a youthful face and shape, but her eyes spoke of the years that she truly owned.
     She took me inside and fed me, and offered me a bath, but I dared not, lest she see. I wanted something to cover the livid tattoo scratched over my cheek, but their was nothing. Not until may years and many lives had been lost.
     She introduced me to her son. We played together in the backyard, and he did the most remarkable thing. He made me feel happy, a bubbling feeling that ran up trough my tummy as we rolled on spring grass. I felt safe, but that was not all. He could make the birds sing.
     Whatever tune he felt like hearing, he would whistle, clear and melodious. The birds would call back in their superior voices. I sang too. The boy, with his raven feather hair and yellow tinged eyes, told me he would never forget my voice. He said it was more beautiful than any bird in the history of ever. I think of that time when I sing, alone, deep in the forest.
     I like to think about the boy, wondering what happened to that girl he met, with a voice more beautiful than any bird in the history of ever. I wonder if we will find each other, some day in the future.