The Misfit

When he comes to our house, he doesn’t stay long with the rest of the kids. 

They tried.  They all tried to make space for him, to fit him in. He tried to fit in too. Mostly he would sit and watch them play, sometimes he would ask to join in.

But it just isn’t working.

Mom, we want to include him but, when he is with us, we ALL die! 

I guess I am supposed to empathize with the drama of these virtual deaths.  They add,  

Or he rage-quits on us.  The burden of a misfit’s outburst, of course, lies solely with him. They all are just a bunch of innocent angels. 

But, I can't really fault them either. I know it's not easy - for him or for them.  

The games the rest of the kids play these days have become too sophisticated for him to keep up with. He is a liability of every team, a doomsday boy that nobody wants around.

In his own way, he understands it.

Still, he comes, relentlessly comes, and after a few minutes of watching them have fun, he turns away and joins me in the kitchen.

It really doesn't matter what time of day it is.  For him, it's always food time. He likes spicy Japanese noodles so I get a box from the pantry. He’s been here often enough to cook them himself. When the noodles are done, he opens the refrigerator door, reaches in and gets a jug of milk.  He already knows where the glasses are, grabs one and carefully pours out some, making sure he doesn’t spill.  Then he sits down, eats and drinks. When he is done, he throws away the empty container, sits back down with his elbows propped against the counter and watches me work.

Can I help?