With Child

'That's what you get when children are having children,'� echoed in my mind as I trekked to my so-called home. My broken sandals were cooing 'flip scuff'� on the way home. A seedy man on the corner was winking at me from his sordid home on the street. He didn't know me and yet we wanted to know me. He didn't know what I've been through; my childhood was robbed. Nevertheless, his eyes still winked at me, as if he knew it was my choice and I had enjoyed it. The man's hungry corporeal look in his eyes haunted me and the image guided my thoughts on the way home. The baby pink handles on the stroller reminded me of the pillows on my bed. With a closed door, maybe all of my troubles would go away or fall on another's shoulders. No worries, at least for a moment. I know that one day I will move from this small city in Ohio to a place where no one whispers as I walk past. It is quite amazing how one simple instinctive event could change the rest of one's life.

The stroller jolted my hands and mind as inconsistencies in the cement reminded me that we could not afford a better one, and that sleep for me is far off. The stroller bumbled about with each change of sidewalk. At least the child didn't seem to mind, as she was tired out from the evening at the park. Sand from the sand box still blended in with her flaxen hair. As her head sway delicately with the inconsistent slabs of cement, grains of sand littered her shoulders like flakes on dandruff. A smile graded her pink face. She was just a child. She didn't know obligations. She will know what it is like to have a childhood; I will make sure of it I thought as we traveled down the long path home. With a certain burst of confidence, I started to saunter proudly, for my feed pounded the pavement with the persistence of a patriot. After three blocks with my newfound sang-froid, the remaining strap of my dollar store sandals undid itself. Picking up the useless sole, I placed it on top of the stroller; with every step, I am reminded of how the tawdry sandal broke in the first place.

-=-

Earlier in the day, when we were taking a walk, we went past a park, and Hannah signaled that she wanted to play. I gave into her whining because the last thing I wanted to do was deprive her of a childhood. On the swing set I was watching little Hannah playing in the sandbox. Hannah found a new friend. I thought she was fine as I started to swing. I try my best to giver her the childhood that was slowly draining from me as I bared new responsibilities. Then my inner child took over as I swung forward toward my goal of becoming parallel to the ground. I was swiftly brought back to reality, when I saw Hannah in slow motion fall from the monkey bars. Her right knee had begun to trickle blood instantaneously. For an inspection and comfort, I jumped like a gymnast from the swings, and I flew to her aid. Upon my landing, my right flip-flop tore from its bindings. I carried her in my arms to her stroller. There I bandaged her with the care of a Civil war nurse thinking that my lover could be among the ill. One of the mothers who were chatting in the social clique of twenty something mothers, from which I was not included, came to help with the rescue mission. With a 'tut tut'� under her breather, she said that I was too gentle; she unbound Hannah's right knee and she poured vindictive alcohol on her wound. The older mother then rebound her right knee, tighter, but with care.

The elder mother rose, dusted off her designer palazzo pants and turned to look at me witrh her acrid toungue ready to lecuture me about the care and keeping of young children. She was at a slight loss of words when she realized how young I appeared. She stared at my as if I was a deserter. Then her eyes slanted and she said, 'That's what you get when children are having children.'� As she turned briskly and walked away, I realized that her hoary roots were coming in marring the dark brown dye. She walked with poor posture, somewhat reminiscent of a crone.

Hannah sat with tears in her bright grey eyes, but she did not let them fall, at least not among strangers. She would be more awake at night and cry then. I'd lay awake at night and hope she awoken someone else as well in the house who would go to her rescue. After two minutes of frightful screaming, with the assumption she didn't wake anyone else, I'd rise slowly from my bed and shuffle toward her crib in the next room. It was my delegated responsibility after all. Most of the time all she needed was to be touched because her room was quite cold. The room was bare white and missed the touch of colour and motherly warmth.

-=-

As I neared my apartment house, on the first chilly Monday of November, I noticed that our mother's blinds were drawn up tight with the pale blue flicker of a television on mute. Max met me at the door, bathed and in pajamas finished with his homework. He was ready to take what should be our mother's responsibility from me to allow me time to do my homework and to get ready for bed. Max took Hannah and laid her in her crib that she was rapidly outgrowing. I slowly shut the front door behind me, and I entered the living room.

No matter how many pillows tried to cover it up, the plaid couch still clashed violently with the olive of the walls, but it was all we had. We lived with it; we had no other choice. Complaining only made things seem worse. Dragging my backpack from the corner where it was carelessly thrown after school, my basketball was hidden under it. I brushed the thought of basketball from my head as I pulled out my math book and it fell open to the page that I desired. I tried to decode the value of /x/ but it was too much for my tired head.

My thought turned to the girls on the basketball team who shortly after ignored me in the hallways now because they thought I had given up on them. Mother started not wanting to leave the house, and with that, the rides to practice disappeared. I was ashamed to call others on my team for rides because I felt I would have to reveal that my own mother developed post partum after Hannah was born. The last thing I need is pity from people who would never understand. I fought with the idea that soon my brother or I will need to find employment because more and more money was being spent on my mother. Medication cost so much. Mother did could only do so much office work in her bedroom. Similar to me, her bedroom was the only pace she felt safe.

Max crept down the stairs when he was sure that Hannah would not wake. When he came in to the living room, he discovered me sleeping as well. He carefully took the math book out from under my head and completed my homework. He replaced the book back in my knapsack and took out my agenda book. He skimmed over my large assignments for social studies and science. He took those books out and did those assignments as well. He practically had my exact schedule two years ago. Which he was looking in the glossary to define the trail of tears, the phone rang.

A familiar voice greeted him. Out father just wanted to check up on us. Since the decision to either lose his job or switch to third shirt came, we rarely saw him anymore. He had lost the familiar spark in his eyes. He used to be so full of life. After out father was sure that we were all right, he hung up to get back to his third shirt, dead end job. Max wanted to scream at dad and blame him for everyone's misfortune, as if blaming a scapegoat was the answer. Max didn't ask for this, no one in that house asked for it. They barely had enough to scrape by, and then he thought of his mother in an unflattering light. Thinking about it wouldn't change the circumstances, if thinking would change things, they would be as happy as they once were. Then Max felt a familiar hunger pang and rose to enter the kitchen; he opened the cabinets to find a dozen container'their contents reflective of the house itself: vapid, stark and empty.

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