Pocketed Change

After two weeks with Ms. Brown, I was informed that a social worker was picking me up in the morning, so I pack my bag.  Packing my bags was basically a black trash bag stuffed with the clothes I had received over the last two weeks, my tooth brush and a brush that a neighbor had given me.

“Lil Nigga, the social worker lady just pulled up, get your shit and meet her at the door!”

Boy, I was happy to get rid of that nick name.

A new social worker walked to the door to receive me, briefly spoke to Ms. Brown and we made it to her car and off I went.  No one took the time to explain where I was going next.  If was going home, if I was going to see my siblings, or going somewhere new where I  didn’t know anyone.  But was clear from my black trash bag, I was leaving Ms.  Brown’s house. We drove for what seemed like for hours.  We pulled up to another small brick house with white rocks in the front yard where grass should be.  imagesTDWX0HWG

“Whelp, we are here!”

I  got out the car and stretched my legs, followed the social worker to the trunk to retrieve my bag.  We walked to the front door, and the social worker said something about how blessed I was to get into this home.  I asked about my family again, but again she didn’t appear to hear me.  A bigger, even blacker woman filled the frame of the front door, but her face appeared to be happy, even had a twinkle in her eyes.  I was instructed to stay outside and play, my bag was removed from my fist and the social worker and the happy lady went inside.  I sat down on the front stoop and watched the kids play. At that moment, I remembered the money in my pocket.  In two weeks,  I managed save a whopping $8.73.   I was pulled out of my inner thoughts by a what I would later discover was a rock to the forehead.  A kid had picked up one of the white rocks from  the yard and hurled it at my head.  I was shocked.  Not wanting to cry in front of these demonic child, I ran into  the strange house.  Not realizing I  was bleeding until I went to  wipe the “sweat” from my forehead.  As I was coming to  the realization that I was hit hard enough to  bust my head open, the social worker and the nicer Ms.  Brown came running and I clasped onto my trash bag.

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