a knife and fork

A knife and fork.


Driving back from my interview to mentor a child in East Dallas in my air-conditioned, pretty car, the words echoed in my head. An offhanded comment, so telling.


A knife and fork.


Flipping through paperwork and legalese, signing this and reviewing that, the pretty lady talked about the responsibilities of a mentor. If you suspect abuse or neglect, tell someone. You're expected to spend an hour a week with your mentee. It can be anywhere, McDonalds, Sonic. The list of goals and expectations, read this. Achievable goals.

Efficiently, she gave examples of what to do. We have a 7 year old who doesn't know how to tie his shoes yet. Maybe you could help them learn to read, since you like reading. And if you find a away for the child to learn, maybe the mother can, too. Most don't have a high school diploma or GED.


More paperwork. Here's a folder, fill out emergency information. This'll have the child's information, any allergies and such.


Really. Anything. Do you like fireworks? Yes, watching, not setting. A quick smile.


Another girl here didn't know how to use a knife and fork. More paperwork. Questions. Clarification.


On my way there, my thoughts flipped and fluttered between word count and how many followers I have. Is this hip? Is that worth attention? How do I make my blog sticky and my tweets popular?


And in a small, stolid building, a child whose mom committed a felony doesn't know how to use a knife and fork. 


A knife and fork.


Help. 

Help.

Help.


A knife and fork.