Borrowed Children by George Ella Lyon

chuckles.
    â€œOld and hungry, that’s me. Let’s go home and see if there’s any meat left on that bird.”

20
    We drowsed away the rest of yesterday. I read Keats’ “Nightingale” which is sleepy too. But today Aunt Laura has volunteered to take me sightseeing. I can’t wait!
    â€œIt’s a sight what you’ll see with Laura, that’s for sure,” Opie says over breakfast. “But you might like to look at this first.”
    He hands me a letter from the stack of mail Omie brought in. It’s from Mama.
    â€œAnd here’s yours.” He slides another one across the table to Omie.
    I’ve never had a letter from Mama before. Miss Amanda Perritt : her handwriting, plain as day. Opie has already slit the envelope with his pen knife; I fish out the single sheet.
    Sunday, December 21
Goose Rock
    Dear Amanda,
    Merry Christmas to my first daughter! I hope you are en joying your holiday and remembering your manners.
    Your father put the tree up today—a handsome fir—so the house smells like the woods and he felt right at home.
    Willie is trying very hard to roll over. Anna and Helen coax him, not knowing the work when he begins to crawl. You remember keeping up with Helen.
    With school out this week, David and Ben have gone to help at the mill and the house is awfully quiet.
    Kiss Omie and Opie for me and come home soon. We miss you.
    Love,
Mama
Mrs. James D. Perritt
    When I finish the letter, it’s a shock to be in Memphis. I feel like I’ve stood in the door at home.
    Opie is drawing a map to the streetcar stop.
    â€œPut in Johnson School,” Omie reminds him.
    He does. Neatly. They debate about how much money I need. Finally, mid-morning, they let me set off.
    I try to look like I’ve waited for streetcars all my life.
    â€œWhere are you visiting from, honey?” says a lady in a cranberry coat.
    â€œKentucky.”
    â€œDaniel Boone’s country.
    â€œYes, ma am.
    She probably thinks we wear coonskin caps and eat deer meat.
    â€œDon’t worry about getting lost. The conductor will help you. We’re all friendly down here.”
    â€œThank you.” I dread more help.
    But when the streetcar comes we get separated, so I don’t have to worry. I get off at Second and make my transfer for Catalpa with no problem.
    I could pick out Aunt Lauras door even if I didn’t know the number. All the other houses have lace panels behind the side glass. Aunt Lauras curtains are two shades of purple.
    When she lets me in, I see there are curtains in the other doorways, too, tied or pushed to one side—yellow, orange, white.
    â€œYour house doesn’t look like this,” Aunt Laura laughs.
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œYou probably have furniture. Tables, chairs. If you do that, you have to decide which room is which.”
    â€œDon’t you?”
    â€œSometimes this is the living room,” she says, as we walk into the room off the hall. It has bare floors, a rag rug, and one big straw chair.
    â€œAnd we eat here sometimes.” She gestures to the next room, with a wooden card table in the center and big pink and gold pillows piled under the window. “We can sit on the floor, we can sit at the table. Or we can switch the two rooms around.” She makes it sound like great fun.
    â€œBut I do know where the bedroom is. Come back with me while I finish my face.”
    I follow her down a narrow hall and through a doorway hung with beads. Really. They rattle as I walk through. She laughs.
    â€œMother says I’m a genius at furnishing doorways.”
    Curtains are shut in the bedroom, so it’s dim despite the bright day. Aunt Laura waves toward a cloud of clothes heaped on the unmade bed.
    â€œI’ve been going through things this morning, clearing out for the new year, and I wonder if there’s anything there you could use.”
    I look at her. There’s a difference between