Misjudgment

I watched carefully, loathing what was to come.

A girl of maybe four or five, meticulously took
the candy from her older friend. Primly and delighted
did she strip away the paper to reveal a bluish nugget,
impure sugar waiting in her elfin hand until she popped
it in her mouth. I stared, convinced the little litterbug
would not think twice about the fact that any second,
someone walking up the bleachers would cause sufficient
movement to dislodge the paper from its resting place,
perhaps a gust of wind, or even her own hand,
sweeping evidence aside because it's just the ballpark,
after all, and everyone leaves trash around for someone else to
pick up or ignore. What's one more tidbit, blue and tiny?
Pondering responses - pick it up and shoot a gentle scold
her way? make sure her mother caught my eye? - my hope
in what the future generations will achieve was once again
restored, at least in part. She picked the papers up and balled
them tightly and compactly before she handed them, without a word,
to the older girl. Clearly comfortable, not wanting to get up
at that precise moment, she neatly tucked the package in her pocket,
and I let out my breath, and smiled at my misjudgment.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014