Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner

in his story should be no different from the way we come to know someone in ordinary life. Since I began writing my story, I have wrestled with the insurmountable obstacle of describing on paper the enormous composite reality of Birdie Freeman. I see the task more clearly as my tale grows, for I understand that though it is a painstaking process, the drawing of her portrait must be accomplished through “minutely organized particulars,” to borrow the words of William Blake, a poet whose words I seldom find cause to borrow, for I have always felt that Blake was too conscious of himself as he composed his verse. I would have liked him more as a poet had he been less of a mystic. The point, however, is that by piling up specific evidence, I shall eventually succeed, and you shall know Birdie as I knew her.
    Twenty-five minutes after Birdie had emptied the oats into the boiling water, the children began filing in for breakfast. Each morning I stood at the end of the line to mark my forms for the government. I watched the children receive their trays in the kitchen and then exit into the cafeteria to sit at the three tables nearest the door.
    This morning I observed Birdie as she set the bowls of oatmeal onto each tray. Francine stood to her left, adding a piece of cheese toast, an orange, and a carton of milk. Algeria was at the stove ladling oatmeal into bowls. These she placed, a dozen at a time, onto a large tray, which she then carried over to the serving line. As Birdie emptied each tray of its twelve bowls, Algeria took an empty tray back to resupply it with full bowls.
    The children chattered freely, laughing and shoving one another playfully, but the women did not talk among themselves during the time they were serving. I watched this morning, however, as Birdie spoke directly to each child, something Francine and Algeria never did when they served unless asked a question.
    Vonnie Lee had been fond of teasing the children, though not individually, and they had liked her despite the fact that they rarely understood what she was saying when she tossed out bits of nonsense such as “Hey, it’s the little old lady from Pasadena!” or “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to!” Although Francine had children of her own, she seemed, for the most part, uninterested in those of other people. Algeria, though I often saw her quick eyes scanning their faces with something akin to hunger, held herself aloof from the children. We were in many ways, I suppose, an odd lot to be working in the cafeteria of an elementary school.
    I had always strongly recommended that my workers refrain from fraternizing with the pupils in order not to interfere with the efficiency of our serving, and this had become a tacit regulation. I realized this morning, however, that I had failed to repeat the injunction in our opening meeting this year, and now as Birdie encircled the rim of each bowl with her small hands and lifted it onto every tray in turn, she addressed each child. “It’s hot, honey,” she said, or “Blow on it a little before you eat it, sweetie.” She looked at every child as she spoke, and I saw that she had already learned the names of several. “Good morning there, Maria, here’s some nice hot breakfast” or “This here will make those bright eyes even shinier—Lamont, isn’t that your name, sweetheart?”
    After all 130 children were served, I observed Birdie as she went out into the cafeteria and bent over a fifth-grade girl sitting at the end of a table. I knew who the child was and understood well why she always sat alone. Mrs. Triplett, the school nurse, had attempted at one time to intervene but had been rudely rebuffed by both the girl, whose name was Jasmine Finney, and her grandmother, with whom she lived.
    Birdie spoke to Jasmine only a moment, then stooped down and appeared to look at the child’s feet. When she returned to the kitchen,