Ladybug, Ladybug

 Our Bonny, our fair-haired Bonny, as soon as she could walk, wandered;  the right word might be searched but she did it as soon as she was old enough to play outside.  I especially remember her bundled up in boots, snow suit, scarf and toque and playing in the snow of the front yard on our quiet street.  My mother, for instance, who would frequently act as her unpaid governess-- if it wasn’t Lori, or Lori’s mother-- kept constant check on her.  But quick as a wink, without warning, she would be gone.  After bothering them a few times when we looked for her, our neighbors knew her habits and became watchful—there was a friendly older couple next door—and when we missed her we would ask them, the woman actually Mrs. Brown, if she’d seen her and she would be tracked down by my mother or Lori’s—more likely mine; Rachel had other grandchildren.  Or it might be me or maybe a stranger or a neighbor who would find her bewildered on one corner of the street or another and bring her back home.  She did it spring, summer and fall as well, whenever our guard was down and we let her play outdoors. 

        Lori wouldn’t put her on a leash as some people did their wandering kids or keep her inside all the time like some people did their cats.  That wouldn’t be healthy.  Every time we found her we would ask where she had thought she was going, but she would stick out her lower lip and shake her little head and mumble ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘Home.’ and I would tell her nicely as I could that our house was her home, but Bonny would only point to a window and say, ‘There.’  It was a puzzlement. 

        But as she grew older, she told us more.  It seems she was worried about her ‘children.’  ‘Katy’s just a baby,’ she told us, but when I brought her favorite doll-- also named Katy-- to show her that Katy was safe she would push it away with an emphatic ‘No!’

        We consoled ourselves that her worries were a childish fantasy that she would outgrow.  I warned her not to wander off again without telling us or we might have to punish her.  Punishment, of course, would mean not watching her favorite shows on TV for possibly a day -- or only one show— she liked watching the Electric Company and even some of the afternoon soaps-- or being exiled to her room for fifteen minutes.    

        As she grew older the story grew more elaborate, soon including Katy’s older brother, Jimmy, who was twelve, and their father, Martin, who Bonny deeply feared wouldn’t be able to cope with her not being there.  I’m one who believes children feel things deeply, though they don’t seem to.  They haven’t the vocabulary or we haven’t the consideration to take them seriously.  Even believing this, however, I sometimes faltered in my belief.  At her youngest when we asked where Martin was she was unable to tell us any more than ‘up on the hill.’ ‘Up on what hill?’ we would ask and get nothing more than a finger pointing out a window.