She inhaled. The buzzing of the café slowed to a purr. The smell of Madagascar vanilla mingled with a smoked bourbon scent. Hmm, maybe there would be a new coffee cake to try today.
The soft sounds of lo-fi wafted out of the well-hidden speakers, reminding her of another seat not so long ago, when she was nestled on the passenger side of Solomon’s car, so uncertainabout what step to take but longing even then to stay right by his side.
She tipped her chin, the sun lighting her face, seeping warmth all the way down to her toes until her recovering foot was cupped in comfort.
She breathed in deep.God,you are as close as my next breath. Notfar away. Not strived for but here in this momentwith me.
She pulled out her notepad and scribbled out some ideas, not caring about her spelling or how lined up everything was on the page.
Kenya started at the touch on her shoulder. “Hello again, Kenya.”
“Hi.” Kenya stood up and was immediately drawn into Althea’s embrace. “So good to see you again.”
Before sitting down, Althea peered at the notebook on the table. She straightened, her smile reaching her eyes and embracing Kenya even more. “What are you writing in that notebook of yours?” the older woman asked.
Kenya wished she had closed it before getting up.
“Um, just some notes. For our meeting. For me.” Her words stuttered out.
Althea focused on the top page, running across the pen marks with her finger. “That is an interesting way to spell my name. A-L-T-E-H-A. And drawing the state of Alabama, a tea bag, and an arrow pointing up, quite inventive.”
Kenya’s neck and ears grew warm. “I, uh—”
“I see that you too have the gift of dyslexia,” Althea said.
Kenya blinked.
Althea sat down across from her. “Sit down, dear, we have much to discuss.”
Kenya did and found her words. “Come again?”
“Dyslexia. I can tell. Not that any two are the same. I think each person comes with their own quirks, despite what kind of label people want to put on them. A couple of my favorite franchisemanagers have dyslexia. They have an uncanny ability to strategize in creative ways.”
Kenya was dumbfounded. Althea pulled the pad toward her, took the liberty to flip through some pages. Kenya should have felt almost violated, but the act was freeing. This woman carried no judgment. “I see how you’ve spelled some of these words. And even on the tour I noticed some of the cues you used to help you with directions.”
Kenya could only breathe, still in shock.
“Hm-mm.” Althea leaned back, an amused expression on her face. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never heard the word before.”
“You’re right, I do have dyslexia, but all my life I’ve looked at it as a curse, as a constant obstacle I needed to overcome just to be normal. I’ve never looked at it as being a gift.” Even as she spoke, the weight that had settled on her felt different. Like a royal, velvet robe. A gift. Her heart soaked in those words that shed light on all her inner thoughts.
“Of course it’s a gift,” Althea continued. “We all receive gifts. They come in so many different shapes and sizes. The fit of yours is a mind that processes information differently. Because God knows exactly who you are and what he would have you be. And God wanted that exact expression of you on this earth. Now we put our little labels and names on it, make it so that we can understand and formulate plans better. And rightly so because what we use as standards do not adequately describe the breadth and depth of the gifts we’ve all been given. But that’s okay because God knows exactly what he’s doing. Your gift is fit for whatever journey he has for you to take. So don’t you dare take it for granted.”
She leaned in close, reached across to place her hand sweetly on Kenya’s cheek as if she were an aunt or a grandmother she’d known her whole life. “And don’t you fail to glorify God with it.”
Kenya smiled, feeling the prick of tears, but deeper was the squeeze of her heart.
Twice now, Althea had stepped in with exactly what she didn’t know she needed to hear. Althea had kind, understanding eyes, reminding her of someone else she’d known as a child. Her mind drifted to that cherished memory as easily as a film playing on a screen.
“Hi. Kenya,right?”
Kenya sniffed. She didn’twant to look up. A light scent of oranges andmint filled her nose. She felt movement and couldn’thelp turning her head as the art teacher sat downnext to her on the cold floor. She didn’tthink old people ever did that. But she guessed theteacher wasn’t that old. Her hands weren’t aswrinkly as Kenya’s grandma’s,and her light-browneyes were big and clear behind her glasses. She likedthe vest the teacher was wearing. Lots of different patterns,and underneath ...
“Your shirt is pink like mine.”
The teachersmiled. “Yes,that’s right. I always like to seewhat you wear,too,during our art time.”
“You seeme?”
