February

a brown clay cup with a muddy brown handle
sat atop a white lace tablecloth

it was the only item on the table

large brown beans extra extra fat
with small beads of brown meat hugged
the skin of the beans and Aliceson counted
all of the beans. There were 20 beans in all.

"Hmm," she said, "that is not right. There should be
21 not 20."

She counted them again.
And then she counted them one more time.

She mouthed the word, "20."

The front door slammed.

And Aliceson's eight year old brown eyes became wider.
Her mind began to race. He was home.

"Aliceson, honey, it's papa."

Aliceson peeked out from the kitchen door and came slowly
towards the tall figure in the foyer.

"Hello papa, I was just making your dinner. Beans and red soup."

"Fine, honey,"

Aliceson bit her lower lip.

"What's the matter? Why the sad face?"

"There is a bean missing."
There, it was out. She had said it.

"Missing. What do you mean missing?"

"You know," and Aliceson's words came out in a rush.
"I did like you said, papa. I counted out 21 beans
and put them in the pot.

Now, she was biting her lip, and wringing her hands.

"Aliceson, honey, it's all right. It's only a bean."

"But papa, we all have a job to do and the bean's job is
to be there for you to eat it."

Miguel looked at his daughter.

He shook his head.
He took a step toward his daughter and put his arms around her.

"Aliceson, honey,--"

The young girl trembled in his embrace and melted into his arms.
Tiny sobs shook her shoulders.
But for the moment she felt safe.

And then again she thought, "what about that 21 bean, where did it go,
was it safe?"


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