Foster children carry things. I didn't notice at first. The hesitant fourteen year old girl with blond streaks? She carries bags. Tote bags. A purse. A backpack. She also carries an Olan Mills style portrait from several years ago. It's tucked protectively in the front cover of her school binder. The smiles of her family mask the erosion caused by intravenous drug use. Mr. Mills did not capture everything that day. The seventeen year old girl who so strongly resembles her mother? She carries her obituary. A reminder of the interconnectedness of mother and daughter. Addict and child. If one could assign absolutes, it would be easier. Good people. Bad people. How uncomplicated. How deceiving. The love for a biological family is unyielding, uncompromising and takes precedence over social workers, law enforcement and juvenile courts. It burns inside these children of loss. A love that calls out to them continuously. A sound to which they abide.
Foster children carry things.
