Tricia Marries a Seven-Year-Old

Fatick, Senegal – April 2010

“I’ll be the queen,” Melody said.  She pointed at me, “You can be the princess, and Ethan will be the bodyguard.”

I leaned back, enjoying the shaded hut in the Forsythe’s front yard.  “I want to be the queen,” I said, lazily stealing a 9-year-old’s dream.  “I don’t want to have to move.”

1917526_530178347992_7414675_nMelody is nicer than me, so she quickly agreed.  “Okay, I’ll be your servant!”

This selflessness made me uncomfortable.  “No, I mean.  You can be a princess.  You can sit here with me.”

“No, no, no.  I’m your servant.  What do you want to drink?  Can I get you something to eat?”

“…Well.  A Vimto would be nice.”  Melody ran inside to satisfy my whim.

Ethan stood nearby with a stick.  “Do you want to jump on the trampoline, Miss Trish?” he asked.

It was so hot.  “I don’t think queens jump on trampolines,” I said sadly.

Melody returned, carrying a can of Vimto with a straw.  “I had the best idea!” she said.  “The kingdom is under attack, and you have to get married!”  Continue reading

Advertisements