In my room (part 1 - I guess)

I wrote this a while back and I think this may be a reference to the same child so you may need to read Motherless child to get to know her before you read the tale below...until there's a book, there's the blog...

I walk over to the industrial sized window and see the sprawling green lawn interrupted by the path of red bricks leading from the sidewalk to the front door. The flag is undisturbed in the still air. It lays limp against the pole as if the concrete in the base of the flagpole has seeped up the pole and into the fabric of the flag itself, rendering it motionless. The sun is on the other side of the building now and the glow replaces the glare as it does every day around this time. I am in my room with the two of them once again.

One is a quiet child. The often averted eyes are propped wide open and drink in every word of the day's lesson. This child will often have or offer the correct answer to a question even when there is no “right” answer and occasionally when there is no question. This child is tender of heart and embarassingly generous. She shares what she has with anyone and often with everyone -  sometimes giving more than what seems possible or even reasonable.  Her math is such that after long division she always has a remainder for herself and the portions need not be evenly divided. Her kindness is offered to all but finds those in need most intuitively and quickly. 

Today, she is sitting quietly in this room. She has not spoken in days. She completes her work and her body is present but her soul is not with us. Her eyes do not sparkle today and her round cheeks wait patiently for a smile's lift. Though she has given many, she has none leftover for today. She imagines the special power of invisibility. I saw her and she knew it because she knows that I have special powers too. I smiled at her and when she tried to return the smile her eyes curved downward into tiny crescents and the tears began to fall.

The tears poured from her vacant little eyes and soon her cheeks were soaked and her nose began to run and her breathing became increasingly difficult and she must have forgotten for just a moment that anyone - that someone was watching. I picked her up and wrapped my arms around her small body and her little girl legs dangled in the air and her shiny black shoes rested at the hem of my skirt. Her tiny limbs encircled my neck and her hands clasped together and she held on for dear life. With her face in my neck and her tiny grief-stricken body in my arms, she retreated into this safe space. 

She knew that her tiny patent leather shoes could fall to the ground and her feet would not be soiled because I would not drop her. She knew that she was being held by someone who would not let go even after the embrace had ended. She wept and her tears streamed down my back and soaked into my shoulder and her sweet sticky snot and slobber pooled on my neck and strangely bonded her to me in globs of mucus - the stuff of life. She wept until she was too tired to cry anymore. Drained by this wave of grief, she relaxed in my arms and her breathing was less ragged and labored. With one last halting and heaving breath,  she lifted her face from my neck and after releasing one reddened hand from the life grip of the other, she attempted to wipe her face. 

I leaned over my desk and lifted the box of tissues until it was within her reach. She pulled one tissue from the box and when she had drenched every fiber in that tissue, she pulled another from the box and continued to wipe her face and blow her nose and clean her mouth until she had dried off her red, puffy face. She then pulled two more tissues and blotted and wiped the residue on my neck. She was hesitant to look at me with her glassy eyes but when she tilted her face, as children often do, to check for my reaction, she found that my face was open and reassuring, loving and accepting. I offered no rush to return to what we called normal and the safe space that she had found had not morphed into a trap which would press her to hurry up and get back to normal.

 I put my hand on her head, covering her tightly braided pigtail and her left ear and pulled her into my chest so that she could hear my heart beat. I managed to sit on the edge of the desk and pulled her little girl legs across my lap and cradled her in my arms and begged my heart to beat for her until hers would slow to a normal pace again. I begged my lungs to breathe for her  until she found her inhale and exhale rhythm again. I cradled her with one arm and shielded her with the other. I whispered a prayer over her and waited until she was ready to re-enter the wait for the next wave. 

Even she knew at this tender age, that grief was not a one time visitor. She now knew that I would be there to welcome it and to sit with her as she hosted grief's painful stay.

(to be continued)
Reverendsister's Ink (c) 2014