There were no contingency plans. The world didn’t slow down to assist us, so it was just the two of us.
She succeeded in making it work.
At school, she was referred to as Miss Lorraine or simply “Lunch Lady,” as though it were an anonymous job title rather than the identity of the lady who raised about half the children in the community. Her name was Lorraine.
Her thin gray hair was knotted in a scrunchie she created herself, and even at seventy, she still arrived at work before the sun came up.
She succeeded in making it work.
Every apron she wore was made of a different fabric, such as little strawberries or sunflowers. They made the children grin, she remarked.
She would pack my lunch every morning and place a sticky note in it, despite spending the entire day preparing meals for other people’s kids. It was always something lovely or silly, such as “You’re my favorite miracle,” or “Eat the fruit or I’ll haunt you.”
Despite the fact that we were impoverished, she never made us feel excluded.My favorite miracle is you.
One winter, she had a spa night in the living room with blankets and candles after the heating broke down. She hummed along to Billie Holiday while she sewed rhinestones into the straps of my prom dress, which cost $18 from a thrift store.
When I asked her whether she ever felt bad about not returning to school, she once answered, “I don’t need to be rich.” “I just want you to be okay.”
I was, too. Until high school made things more difficult, anyway.All I want is for you to be alright.
It began in freshman year, in the same quiet, cruel way that whispers do.
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