me so nothing could escape and I wouldnât get arrested and sent to hell.
I left without any hugs or waves or shopping bags of goodies, but I did have a stuffed bear a nurse gave me when I first came and only stared at the walls. âHeâs yours,â she told me. He looked almost like the one Iâd had way before, the same yellowish fur. I didnât say thank you. I left him on the floor of the day room. She put him in my bed. âHe has no place else to go,â she told me. Later that night when I woke up suddenly, my heart bursting inside me, my sheets wet with sweat and pee, I grabbed the bear and buried my face in his neck fur. That spot was wet for days.
I leave with a woman the nurse says is my grandmother. âThey have custody of you,â she says. I nod, not understanding but excited to be leaving with someone. The woman signs papers while I stand quietly behind her, arms stiff at my sides. âYou havenât visited before,â the nurse says.
âItâs a long trip,â my grandmother says, her voice a soft, musical lilt, her hair a tight crisscross of blond braids on top of her head. Her face is a stern, drawn version ofSarahâs. I follow her to the elevator and look around, and cough loudly, hoping that everyone will see me leaving with somebody.
âIn God is my salvation and my glory,â she says, staring straight ahead as the car winds through the cracked mountain roads laced with frost. âThe rock of my strength and my refuge is in God. Trust in him at all times; God is a refuge for us.â I hear her swallow. âPsalm 62:7â8â She says nothing else until we get to the house.
The trees open out onto a wide clearing. Horses run inside fences as our car drives past. A steeple is visible over a distant ridge. The road smoothes out to soft black tar. An older blond boy on horseback gallops next to us. He stares at me, then whips the horse twice and races away over the low green slopes.
We drive past gray weathered wooden barns that look propped up by haystacks. Another five minutes and we turn into a wide pebbled driveway. Four white columns hold up a sloping overhang. Two oak and stained-glass doors sit in the center. It looks like a museum. âThis is a house of the Lord,â she says, and stops the car in front of the doors. We get out and she opens the unlocked door and light streams into the dark hall. I squint hard to see.
âHe shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence: and precious shall their blood be in their sight.â She pats my shoulders. âPsalm 72:14.â She walks away from me into the gloom of the hall. I stand still, waiting.
FOOLISHNESS IS BOUND IN THE HEART OF A CHILD
I HEAR THE footsteps long before I see anyone. The click click sounds like an eggshell being torn apart rhythmically and with anger. âThe way of the wicked is an abomination unto the Lord: but he loveth him that followeth after righteousness.â The voice echoes down the hallway, staccato and sharp.
âJeremiah, do you know where that is from?â
My grandfather is suddenly standing in front of me. He says my name the way Sarah does; sheâs only said it a few times, but when she does I feel reassured and remembered. âJere-my.â My, like youâre mine.
âThe only reason youâre here is the bastard wouldnât let me give you a wire hanger for a head,â she said between swallows of the Wild Turkey that she called âchickenâ when we went to the liquor shop. I got used to the bitter taste of âchickenâ in my Coke and how easily I fell asleep after I drank it. âTrip on the trainâ is for Midnight Express. Itâs the same sour burning as âchickenâ, but I liked hearing Sarah ask for train more.
âOnce you got here,â she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, âhe wouldnât give a dime to feed or keep ya.â
But he had wanted
I left without any hugs or waves or shopping bags of goodies, but I did have a stuffed bear a nurse gave me when I first came and only stared at the walls. âHeâs yours,â she told me. He looked almost like the one Iâd had way before, the same yellowish fur. I didnât say thank you. I left him on the floor of the day room. She put him in my bed. âHe has no place else to go,â she told me. Later that night when I woke up suddenly, my heart bursting inside me, my sheets wet with sweat and pee, I grabbed the bear and buried my face in his neck fur. That spot was wet for days.
I leave with a woman the nurse says is my grandmother. âThey have custody of you,â she says. I nod, not understanding but excited to be leaving with someone. The woman signs papers while I stand quietly behind her, arms stiff at my sides. âYou havenât visited before,â the nurse says.
âItâs a long trip,â my grandmother says, her voice a soft, musical lilt, her hair a tight crisscross of blond braids on top of her head. Her face is a stern, drawn version ofSarahâs. I follow her to the elevator and look around, and cough loudly, hoping that everyone will see me leaving with somebody.
âIn God is my salvation and my glory,â she says, staring straight ahead as the car winds through the cracked mountain roads laced with frost. âThe rock of my strength and my refuge is in God. Trust in him at all times; God is a refuge for us.â I hear her swallow. âPsalm 62:7â8â She says nothing else until we get to the house.
The trees open out onto a wide clearing. Horses run inside fences as our car drives past. A steeple is visible over a distant ridge. The road smoothes out to soft black tar. An older blond boy on horseback gallops next to us. He stares at me, then whips the horse twice and races away over the low green slopes.
We drive past gray weathered wooden barns that look propped up by haystacks. Another five minutes and we turn into a wide pebbled driveway. Four white columns hold up a sloping overhang. Two oak and stained-glass doors sit in the center. It looks like a museum. âThis is a house of the Lord,â she says, and stops the car in front of the doors. We get out and she opens the unlocked door and light streams into the dark hall. I squint hard to see.
âHe shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence: and precious shall their blood be in their sight.â She pats my shoulders. âPsalm 72:14.â She walks away from me into the gloom of the hall. I stand still, waiting.
FOOLISHNESS IS BOUND IN THE HEART OF A CHILD
I HEAR THE footsteps long before I see anyone. The click click sounds like an eggshell being torn apart rhythmically and with anger. âThe way of the wicked is an abomination unto the Lord: but he loveth him that followeth after righteousness.â The voice echoes down the hallway, staccato and sharp.
âJeremiah, do you know where that is from?â
My grandfather is suddenly standing in front of me. He says my name the way Sarah does; sheâs only said it a few times, but when she does I feel reassured and remembered. âJere-my.â My, like youâre mine.
âThe only reason youâre here is the bastard wouldnât let me give you a wire hanger for a head,â she said between swallows of the Wild Turkey that she called âchickenâ when we went to the liquor shop. I got used to the bitter taste of âchickenâ in my Coke and how easily I fell asleep after I drank it. âTrip on the trainâ is for Midnight Express. Itâs the same sour burning as âchickenâ, but I liked hearing Sarah ask for train more.
âOnce you got here,â she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, âhe wouldnât give a dime to feed or keep ya.â
But he had wanted
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