And so the storytelling section presents: Mother, mother.

I remember how much I’d confused Hazel when I tried to explain how I had no father. The topic was brought about when Hazel and the other orphans were talking about their families. Somehow, we reasoned that memories were the only way we could keep our parents alive. There had been no warning when it happened. But when the dust cleared Hazel was there, looking after us. All of us latched onto her, happy that there was someone there. Only later did the full realization hit. It hit us as sharp and true as one of Hazel’s own arrows. "What were your parents like?" Hazel had asked one day. "Your mom and dad?" Her question confused me at first. Finally I managed to say, "I don’t have a daddy." "You must have had a father. Who helped look after you?" Hazel seemed so insistent, almost desperate in her questions. "Mommy." I said without any hesitation. All my life I remember my moms. As a young girl I had everything I could ever ask for. Most importantly I had love and caring. Those gold and gray eyes looked after me when I hesitantly took my first step. Smiling, they would watch as I played among the flowers outside our home. When I flew for the first time those eyes looked at me with encouragement and a gleam that betrayed their own excitement. When I was tiny and helpless, mommies’ arms sheltered me from the darkness. Whenever they were near I never feared the dark. As night fell and blackness engulfed us those eyes were my beacon. They seemed to me like little suns and moons that never faded or disappeared. Until it happened, and I found myself alone, even though I was suddenly surrounded by friends. Hazel sighed a moment, gathering her thoughts on how to approach me. "Who were your parents?" she asked, picking me up and setting me on her knee. Smiling, I answered as elegantly as I could. "Mommy and Mommy." Unfortunately when you are young you don’t exactly have the best speaking skills. Hazel must have understood it though. She froze, blinking several times while she processed this. "You...h...had two mothers?" "Yes..." I was so grateful that she was finally getting it, hoping that I wouldn’t have to explain about anything else. Little did I know then how different Hazel and her society was from my own. I found out much later that not only was such a pairing impossible, you would become shunned for thinking of it. Maybe in a way I was lucky to be born as I was. In my world having two moms was unusual, but not all that unusual. It wasn’t the norm, but I did know a few other girls who had two mothers as well. When I found out about the way Hazel’s society was, I must have felt as shocked and confused as Hazel did that day. Such an alien way to live. It seemed almost barbaric to have to denounce contact with a mate simply because they happened to be of the same gender. My kind doesn’t have love at first sight. Instead we look into each others eyes, look into each others souls. Eyes are windows into the soul, especially for my people. Those hazel eyes that suited my mentor and protector so well betrayed the conflict within her soul. I could tell how she struggled to find the right words, the right phrases. Hazel seemed as cautious and wary as a deer walking through a swamp while knowing that hundreds of things could be lying just under the surface. "Um. Who gave birth to you?" I thought a moment, finally confessing that I didn’t know. "You don’t even know who gave birth to you?" Shock caused the words to spill out before she could evaluate them. My anguish must have shown. She immediately looked abashed and I felt sorry for her. How could I explain? The first things I saw were those gold and gray eyes. I could tell that Hazel was trying to help, and she felt that she was failing at it. Finally, after warring with many responses, I said I guessed neither of them did. Hazel sighed and massaged her temple with a free hand. "Hazel? You ok?" I’d asked. "I just don’t understand. What happened to the one who gave birth to you?" "Death, I think. I could be wrong though." I never really knew the one who gave birth to me. It never occurred to me before that it was important. What does it matter who gives birth to you? Aren’t those who look after you far more important? My people don’t deem those who give birth as important to a child as their parents, and perhaps for good reason. I’ve seen some of the birthers, round with developing children inside and thin and tall, just beginning to grow. I can’t imagine one of those looking after me, replacing the kind warm eyes of my childhood. I said none of this to Hazel, but her words echoed my thoughts so well. "Do you miss the one that gave birth to you?" "Not really." I’d replied instantly, having had a little time to contemplate. "How can you speak of this so easily, yet feel so bad about your mothers deaths?" Confusion was practically etched into her features. "I was born by it, but my mommies looked after me." "It? Wasn’t there a name?" "No, why would you name a birther?" Much to my relief Hazel turned to Flora, the oldest of us. "Is there something I’m missing here?" Hazel asked. "Just how are pixies born anyway?" Flora flew over to sit on Hazels shoulder. "I dunno if I should tell you. It’s kind of complicated." "Well it can’t be anymore mind warping than trying to guess on my own." Hazel seemed so tired. "Just tell me." "All right." Flora’s face became serious and her pink eyes set a calming tone. "We’re not born the way you would expect. We don’t have to make a male and female pairing, though that’s what usually happens. The birthers Elle’s been talking about are plants that some of our scientists believe we’ve evolved from. To make a child parents contribute a bit of themselves to the plant’s seed pod at the right time, usually some blood. There’s a big ceremony that comes with it all which finally ends as the parents contribute. Some couples joke about how the pain is a faint echo of the burden of becoming a parent." Hazel chuckled at this, now knowing the burden she took upon herself by deciding to look after a few pixy orphans. Whatever might have followed was cut off as Mitch came into the room. He looked a little irritated, but then he always does. Even when he smiles his eyebrows are furrowed. But then I looked into his eyes, more expressive than most are, and I knew he was fine. He growled a little for show and told us it was time to sleep. We flew to our beds after much prodding. As I drifted off to sleep I finally knew how much I had left to learn. When the Light faded out and darkness enveloped the room, there was a bit of the old fear again. Then I felt hazel eyes watching like the gold and gray ones used to. At that moment I knew we’d both be learning together. I recall how Hazel once mentioned two male lovers that used to live near her home. Many of the neighbors barely tolerated them, and some even actively tried to harm them. After those two took much abuse they finally had enough and moved far away to escape. Hazel said she remembered that day when she watched the two men take the belongings that were still intact and disappeared into the woods. Crying, I’d asked why nice people didn’t try to help the two before it was too late. Hazel looked sad, and the rest of the day she explained prejudice to me. "When people are different they get singled out. It can be as simple as the way they look, or their preference of mates. My race can’t have children with another person of the same gender, we just aren’t built for it. So any such pairing is considered evil or unnatural because children aren’t born because of it. Never mind that the future isn’t written yet." Hazel sighed, set her bow and arrows on the ground, and sat with her back against a tree. "Do you know what a mob is Elle?" "I know what a mop is!" I exclaimed as I remembered my moms washing the floors of our home with one. Hazel smiled, "I envy you Elle. But a mob isn’t the same as a mop. Mobs seem to bring out the worst in people. It tends to twist their intentions to violence of one form or another. When a large mob of people forms, they become kind of crazy, tearing at anything that looks like an easy target. The most sensible thing for any decent person to do at that point is to run or hide, keep from drawing attention to themselves." Hazel stopped a moment, sniffling softly as tears began to well in her eyes. Her eyes had the sort of look I’d expect to see on my own eyes in the first moments when my Moms died and I realized there was nothing I could do. Somehow I read in those hazel eyes that she had been one of those who had to sit and watch as the two men were hurt, and had to struggle to keep from doing anything. "Prejudice...it forms mobs. Not only that, it fuels them as well. It gives the mobs purpose, if you can say that destruction is a purpose. The prejudiced mobs strike at people, decent people, just because they are different. If you speak up they turn to you, they call you a sympathizer. They wonder if you spoke up out of kindness, or if you spoke up because you are one of those they target in the first place..." Tears were falling steadily from Hazel’s eyes, she no longer bothered trying to wipe at them anymore. "Then, they targ...target..." Hazel’s voice cracked, and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Yet even at seven years old I could guess how that sentence ended. Even now it doesn’t seem fair. Just because someone is different doesn’t make an excuse to hurt them. But to target someone because of love, either the love between couples or the simple caring for others, it just seems so perverse. As the hazel eyes turned red from tears, I fluttered nervously a short distance away. I thought of how my own mothers would have been received if they happened to live where Hazel did. I thought of what Hazel and those poor men went through. Finally I flew over to Hazel and hugged her tear soaked thumb, my minute tears mingling with hers. Together we cried. We cried for my mothers. We cried for the men, and for Hazel, and for all the kind eyes in the world that had to watch hate helplessly. Finally, we cried for her society and the misled mobs of prejudice.