I guess, it did not matter that we were the outcasts of the neighborhood, after all.
As I watched others lives fall apart, we all still had each other, no matter how many times people thought Mother was crazy for planting the garden by the cycles of the moon, or how Dad would allow us to put curlers in his hair, right before going to the grocery store, wearing them proudly.
The normal people, who looked down upon us, seemed to care more about our behaviour than their own lives. Divorce, arrests and suicides left us – unlike them – untouched.
But instead of returning their treatment with the same, my weird, flower-in-her-hair Mother, would bring them a smile and chocolate cake.
No one remembered The Forgotten, the outcasts, that were tossed from our society as if they were garbage, not human beings, who did nothing wrong.
Those people, hidden behind the deep walls that surrounded our cities, were simply different, not fitting in with the norm of prescribed standards of look or form.
Placed beyond the walls, to defend themselves, no one ever spoke of them again, no matter if they used to be friends, or where children.
Our fold had no place for them, but in the quiet, lonely hours just before dawn, comforted by the luxuries of our culture, I wept.
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015
This post was inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction prompt “Forgotten”.