In years past I have been in orphanages. I have held parentless children. I have seen poverty and loneliness. But somehow, this time, it was all different. Maybe it is because I am a mother now. Maybe it's because it was my daughter I had to leave behind each day. Maybe I am just older and understand now what it means to have a family and to belong and, consequently, what it means to be alone.
When I first cracked the metal door that opened into a long, dark corridor we were swarmed with children like bee's to honey. They seemed to appear out of the cracks and crevasses in the walls. They would run to us and wrap their small arms around our legs until it was impossible to take the next step. At one point I looked back at my sister who was completely covered with children. The only part of her I could really see was her little face, which was beautifully streaked with pain and shock.
The baby room was hot, muggy and dim. Several workers tended to the babies who were packed into the cribs. Some children were crying, others stared at the ceiling above them, the rest slept, blocking out the noise around them. I knew it would be like this. But I didn't know it would feel as it did: the hollowed, emptied well in pit of my stomach, the helplessness, the woman in me shrinking in the backward evolution of understanding, becoming small and just a little girl again, watching and not understanding the world around me.
I searched the room for an empty crib and finally spotted hers, in the center of the room. I laid Keza in her crib and immediately loved the little boy beside her. He was so small and hot, his hair curled and licking his forehead. I touched his head and he didn't move. He just laid there, staring into space. I wanted to run.
We left quickly that day. The moment the metal door shut behind us we burst into tears. It took hours before the tears completely dried, and even now, weeks later, I am still fighting them.
