Thea, in the grass

Everyone she had known as a child was dead.

        Thea lay on the grass, and suddenly realized.  The thought jumped her, at this perfectly ordinary moment.  She quickly fell into nostalgia.

        She conjured the smell of smoke and alcohol, the blurred sound of laughter, and the sense of security they created for her.  She couldn’t recount much, but she could feel everything.  It’s all burned into the core of her childhood.  The men and women who had came and went; who debated and drunk passionately, either art or nonsense.  To a child it had been more than enough; she sat in the circles and listened quietly; she possessed them all. 

        Some of them disgust her, the drunken fist fights and distasteful manners had made her wince.  But some of them were beautiful and elegant.  Every one of them lived a characteristic life, and no one had bored her. 

        They respected her innocence, though maybe some of them simply ignored her.

        It had been a colorful crowd, Thea thought.  To the little girl, every adult was a wonder.  Only now could she understand who they really were: they were artists, journalists, and drunks.  More than a few were despicable or miserable, and less than half made something of their lives.

        A flock of black birds lifted off from the treetop, it left the branches swinging in the air.  Thea remembered someone who drew fine portraits of animals and plants for atlases.  He was the best in the country.  Where was he now?

        Thea worried she had not grown up well.  Should she meet them today, she would cast judgment before they walked through her door.  She worried she had grown proud.

        Did she?

        She sat up and folded her hands.

        She tried to find an answer.

        But she couldn’t be sure.