Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass by Emily Kimelman

squinting against the sun. Then he looked at Blue.
“Hello,” he said with a shy smile. Blue laid down, kicking one of his
back legs out, and panted at the boy. 
    “Hi,”
I said.
    “Nice
to meet you, Goyo,” Dan said,
extending his hand. The boy looked at it and then grinned. Taking Dan’s hand he
shook it extravagantly, pumping his little arm up and down.
    “Nice
to meet you, sir,” Goyo said as if it was something he’d heard in a movie.
Then his gaze returned to Blue.
    “You can
pet him,” I said.
    Goyo
dropped Dan’s hand and inched closer to Agapito, that shy smile catching his
lips again. The boy shook his head, wrapping tiny fingers around the priests
wrist.
    Agapito
ruffled Goyo’s hair then sent him off to play with his friends. Once the boy
was out of earshot Agapito told us, “His
entire family died in a fire. I found him on the street, hungry and
terrified.” The priest smiled at me. “I am so pleased that I had a
place for him here where he can eat, play, learn,
like all children should.”
    “Yes,”
I said. “This is very nice.”
    “Come,
I will show you our art room,” he said,
excitement edging his voice higher. “Perhaps my favorite place.”
    Chloe
held the door for us and we stepped back into the church. Agapito opened the
first door on our left and flicked on a light switch, bringing the florescent
tubes that lined the ceiling to life. Large windows covered two walls. To our
left we could look out onto the playground. The front windows faced a garden
and beyond it a quiet residential street.
    In the
room were four long tables with cans of pencils and markers spaced out on them.
A corner was set up with easels around a still life of pomegranates and jack
fruit. The smell of paints and paper took me back to my high
school art room. A place I always felt safe. Outcasts and bad
asses are always welcome where paint and brushes reside.
I walked over to the easels and looked at the paintings. One was by far
superior to the others. I felt that I could reach out and touch the spines of
the jack fruit depicted there. “This isn’t a child’s,” I said.
    Agapito
laughed. “No, I will admit that is mine. Do you paint?”
    I shook
my head.
    “Perhaps
you should.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and looked at the painting with
me. “It is good for the soul.”
    I felt a
sudden sadness at his words and reached out,
touching one of the brushes. Its soft bristles tickled my fingers. “I was
never any good,” I said.
    “Improvement
comes from practice.”
    “Yes,”
I said,
thinking of the skills I did possess.
    “Do
the kids all live here, too?” Dan asked,
looking out at the children in the playground.
    “Yes,
we have dorms,” Agapito said, turning
to Dan and dropping his hand from my shoulder. I missed the weight of it and
was surprised by that.
    “Can
we see them?” I asked.
    “Yes,
of course,” Agapito said.
    “Where
do you find your teachers?” I asked as we walked back down the hall, Blue
heeling at my hip.
    Chloe
answered me. “We have a relationship with a nearby college. Most of our
teachers are local women.”
    “Yes,”
Agapito said. “I will admit I harbor a dream that some of the children
here now will return to teach.” He blushed. “Wouldn’t that be
wonderful?”
    “Yes,”
Dan said. “Awesome.”
    “Awesome,
yes,” Agapito nodded. “I like that word very much.” Then he
turned and started up  a flight of steps. “We have two large dorm rooms,
one for girls and one for boys,” he said as we climbed.
    Reaching
the top Agapito opened a door. He held it for me and I stepped into a large
room that ran the length of the building. It had wood floors and was lined with
single beds, neatly made. In front of each one sat a chest. Blue trotted down
the aisle, his nose to the ground, ears swiveling, checking, making sure there
was nothing hiding. Most of the beds were decorated with stuffed animals. It
smelled clean and fresh. Many of the windows were open