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Show 317 A few children are sitting in a small group on the floor in a comer, trying to repeat the day, the month, the season, as prompted by their teacher, and I am unexpectedly reminded of those same questions, those very same promptings, at my waking up from bad anesthesia and wonder what thoughts are in the minds of these children. What would they say of all this, if they could? I am suddenly overwhelmed with wanting to be somewhere else and as Emily and I make our way to the door with polite words of thanks to the director for her time, I notice the child whose face was squirted. It is still quite wet. "I never know what to think of these things," I am telling Emily as we settle in her car. "I don't either," she says. "But I do wonder what would have happened if my brothers had had anything to help them when they were children." I am wondering what her brothers would now request for their educationally ignored childhood, if they could speak. If they could go back. We drive back home in thoughtful silence. Out of respect for unexpressed pain and a wet face. |