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WHERE ARE THE BABIES? Maybe this time. But without opening her mouth or moving her lips, I heard her ask, "Where are the babies?" Ten I am. Double Digits. All fingers both hands. Ten is old. Sunday afternoon and I had learned the routine. Executed my best performances for the past ten years. Memorized every detail. This time. This time? Wake to early mass. Be thankful for breakfast. Chores never to be forgotten. Hands to work, hearts to God. Each hair in place, or so I was told. No mirrors allowed. Vanity is sin. Dress pressed under the one inch mattress overnight. Black, itchy, opaque stockings. Don't snag your dreams on the box springs of reality. One, two buckle my shoe, three, four shut the door. So hot. Doors had to be kept shut. Why? To keep them out? To keep us in? Tall, wide, heavy, immovable, inaccessible doors. Never opened a single door in all of ten years. Went, wore, walked and was what I was told. Hallway lined with old, donated wooden church pews. We sit. Atop a shined and polished tile floor. Once scratched my initial (only had one) in the corner before the wax had dried. My carefully laid wax. Only once this I did. Only once. An unlearned heathen would mark her letter "J" on shiny orphanage floors. Only once. Each Sunday, each month, each year moved me further away down the row of benches. Nearer and nearer to those closed doors. Noon bells rang. We all become frozen into stone just like the angels living over the steeple. Wingless angels we sat there. Moved my leg once. Three inch splinter embedded all into the back of my knee. Only moved once. Only once. Didn't cry. No one knew. Years of splinters. No talking. Sit up straight. Feet crossed right over left. Hands folded left over right. Old teach the young. Ten is old. Don't swing your feet. They came. Ladies with matching purse and shoes. Men wore white shirts. White shirts. Eight hand-held steps down the corridor before they took their eyes off themselves. Love and hope. Take me home. What is home? Heels clicked on my shined floor. My floor. Look at me. Just look at me. Good girl. Work hard. I work. Do what I'm told. I'll try harder. I'll sit taller. Smile wider. Look less like me. Deep scars on my heart match deep scars on my legs. Don't cry. Don't cry. Tell me. Tell me why. Why each Sunday they walk away? Further and further away? Hope
dies each time I hear them ask Sister Mary Katherine, "Where are the babies?"
Jeannie Killian |