A Note Would’ve Been Off Key, For Me.

For the fifteenth time in three years, I had new foster siblings. Two pre-teen girls; all eyes and limbs and with license to ask about and have a say on damn near anything.

They wondered aloud about why I had brought my own books. Books were for school, except for the Good Book.

And they liked my transistor radio, but music was for church. And I had four ties, so I must go to church a lot. And after church on Sunday there was always fried chicken.

Did I like fried chicken? Their foster father liked fried chicken, and drove a big diesel truck, except for Sunday morning when he put on a tie and suit coat and was a deacon. And why was I packing everything back up?

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