Empty

(Dedicated with love to the children who survived, and to those who couldn’t.)

Luchenza Orphanage by photocillin on Flickr

Orphanage by photocillin on Flickr

 

There were no toys. There were no hugs.

There were no hands to pat wet eyes.

There were no smiles. There were no songs.

There were no calming lullabies.

There were long nights. There were cold days.

There were no comforts when one cried.

There was just time.

Immense.

Indefinite.

There was just fear.

Impervious.

Infectious.

There were blank stares.

A deafening silence.

There were human metronomes

Rocking in desperate absence.

 

There were no words.

There still aren’t any.

Just threads of heart

To weave the splintered

Into many.

 

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Tenacity

orphanage

 

He lay alone. A crib among a sea of cribs.

No one. No home.

Lifted, unwrapped, rewrapped, put down.

Indistinct sounds

Disembodied cries: His own? Others? Anyone?

His voice ignored.

Too many babies, too few staff.

He learned to rock himself to sleep.

His mind took him away from hunger, fear, despair, exhaustion.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Contracted world. Folded unto its own.

 

Eternity.

 

Then in the numbing monotony

Different arms.

 

Lifted into chaos

Faces too close, movement too rapid, changes too many.

Sounds mouthed.

Rapid. Jumbled. Urgent.

Unknown.

Numbness threatened, overwhelm piled on.

Snail in. Check out. Burrow deep into alone.

 

Still something tugged. Come back.

Smiles. Cooing. Soft hands.

Gentle rocking that filtered into his own and

Enveloped

Awakened

Yearning. Sorrow. Despair. Hope. Panic. Need.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

He fled into his mind.

He peeked out. Fled back in.

Moments alternated:

Aware, away, awake, afraid, alarmed, asleep.

 

Days passed on

Eternity or weeks or months.

Soft words repeated gently

More faces

More holding arms

In rocking, humming, tenderness

Language.

Song.

New scaffold rose as

Meaning slowly dispersed fog

Into words.

A world.

Gentle hands.

Comfort.

Soothing voices at disembodied cries: his own?

His own.

His voice.

Calling.

For someone.

To come.

And they come.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post