A child who's lost her faith

I always search the ground for those things that will make me stumble, the hand never caught me
I never look at the sky in the swing, for the one time I did the arms did not comfort.
I never ask for food, I anticipate with fear that you will say no to my complaint of hunger, my newborn cries shushed instead of fed.
I cannot trust you when you help with home work, I taught myself how to talk, how to walk, how to crawl...you were not there. I'm not sure you understand 2+2.
I am in constant fear of falling off a chair, one foot always on the ground, my only attachment was a string tied around my leg and knotted to the crib.
I sleep with eyes open, the dark has not been peppered with gentle late-night kisses, and one more tucking-in.
I trip, because concerned about behind me, I look over my shoulder constantly. You have not always had my back.
I cannot listen to the words you read, so much of the rest of this might fade away, I hold on with clenched fists to the moments, I miss the story.
I weep at the sight of a doctor, I faced so many all alone.
I speak of friends and their jibes and habits with obsession. Someday I will be like them, carefree.
I panic when you walk away, for five long years they walked away and never came back.
I play, but frantically, as if it's the thing I must do, the way back to joy.

I read the book, There are no Children Here by Alex Kotlowitz, a classic social study on American inner-city growing up and I've spent hours in orphanages, numbed to the fact that the children are primarily, profoundly silent. But my son asked after returning to Amelia's orphanage one summer, why the room full of 3-5 year old boys and girls couldn't speak and I had to say, I guess they have no one to teach them to talk and play and run and smile. Who knew it had to be taught?

As we try to regrow childlike trust in life, and see this modeled in Grey's wild, exuberant play, I find myself frustrated, wondering how long it takes to get back a childhood? 

Amelia balancing with friends, Eden and Gabe

I am Boy

My sister likes pretty dresses and fluffy flowers and bright candy. That's nice...
But I love digging deep into the earth with my toe and feeling the rough dirt clinging to my toes,
The zmmmmzmmmmm music of weed eaters, and sawing, and drilling,
The schschsch flash of the street cleaners brush left too low and sparking as it passes,
The arf arf of the dog whose owner can't get him to stand still,
The hum and majesty buildings at the wharf sliding along streets of metal,
And the clang, bang, crash of the metal crate as it dangles in the air, a little toy box and crashes into place with a thousand others,
The puff of hot coming out of large, loud trucks as they whir by,
And the brbrbrbrbrbr of the motorcycles whizzing through the lanes.
I love
The tickle of a dozen ants as I squish them in my hands,
The slime of lotion all over my tummy,
The goo of yogurt as it drips down my chin,
The Ssss Sssss of the sidewalk sweeper.
The taste of insect repellent, fake leather, vitamin capsules and foam,
The crane and excavator and buildings being born and buildings being torn.
It's so fun to see
The shock on mom's face as I chuck a large book at her her, and hear
The roars of laughter when I wipe my food on the wall.
The shout of surprise when I scale new heights, or burrow into new holes.
I live for
The feel of almost-dying when I climb up on the shoe cabinet to jump into the couch,
The thrill of the fall when I dive off the back of the chair,
And even the ouch of pain when my head hits harder than I intended,
The way every different object falls so differently when thrown off the eleventh floor
And the way my sister objects when she has to go retrieve her socks or shoes...again.
The echo of my loudness as it catapults around the room,
And the people who come running to see what all the ruckus is.
You may call me crazy, wild, hyper, urban, gross, in-poor-taste or dirty.
But mostly I am Boy.

Inspired by Grey and recently watched documentary, Raising Cain