Lorely and the Jay

by Kathlene Postma

The blue jay stole the baby straight out of the bird bath. Lorely wailed when she saw the little head bobbing in the jay’s grabby beak. The baby’s mouth was set into a silent ‘O’ of shock, its eyes fixed on Lorely. She raced after the bird calling, “Thief!” but the jay, muscular and confident, skimmed the tops of the sunflowers and disappeared within the feathery camouflage of the cedar tree.

After she yelled for her mother (no answer), her father (not home), and her older brother (didn’t care), Lorely began to climb the cedar, her bare feet finding prickly traction, her hands soon sticky with sap. She had just turned ten, and while she was too old for dolls, she was not too old to pretend she was a fairy or a monkey or a mother as long as she kept her fantasy a secret. When she was left alone in the garden (and everyone was glad to assume she was out there being happy and out of their hair), she put her hands in mud and made porridge, or she dug down in her mother’s best rose bed until she had a hole that smelled of death. There she made her mucky potions. Sometimes those potions involved making babies.(More …)