By M. Raf
On that first day, they don’t know you. They survey your movements like cornered prey. You go to one, say hello. She stares, turns, rejects you. One’s dysregulated. You cup your ears and think of home as he screams. You cross the day off, an hour in. “Soon.”
Then, you get a slight smile. A hug from behind. You get out bubbles for the screaming; they pop on his nose and he laughs. One’s fighting a battle with his trousers. You teach another a full sentence. The day crosses itself off. You’re in a time capsule: mid-cross, halfway through a laugh.
Leave a Reply