Madness

A padlocked door,

behind it food

(but not for you)

air conditioning

(but not for you),

inside a sagging house

bowed with neglect,

faded yellow paint,

cracked window panes,

missing screens long lost,

doors that barely latch

let alone lock.

Fighting siblings

for moments

by the heat vent,

avoiding the cockroaches

scurrying under the bed,

creeping  in drawers,

crawling over counters.

Leaving a cold house

on early mornings

with an empty stomach

to walk the long walk

to classrooms

of people confirming

what you already know:

there is no fitting in here.

Sitting in hallways

listening to the others

with their various

classroom parties

and birthday treats

(but not for you).

keeping your feet flat

so no one can see

the black foam

worn through the soles

of your $2.50 shoes

from the dollar store.

sent home yet

again, white hair

betraying black lice.

Even the body betrays,

adding feminine

burdens with her

monthly calculations.

Scavenging nickels

for the tampon machine

at school.

Ever worrying

how this body smells.

I muddled through

that time, that place,

head down, shoulders

rounded, surviving

in the scraps

of their life,

with the muted

desperation

of a soul longing for

moments of relief:

kind words

(not theirs),

a sweet orange

(not from them),

clothes not ridiculous.

(donated by others).

Day after day.

week after week.

month after month.

time crawls by

under the thumb

of struggle,

unmet need

in plain sight.

This daily misery alone

would be enough

to drive a child

slowly mad,

desperate for any

reprieve,

even a bad one.

Never mind the rest of it.

The eruptions

of insanity,

spewing violence

and terror.

An arm (or belt)

coming down

again and again.

The hole in the wall

covered by a picture.

Shattered dishes sparkling

in the sunlight

outside the back door.

Fresh bruises (not yours).

The night time outbursts,

lying in your bed listening

to the screaming.

Jerked awake at 2am

to keep them company

in the night,

while they rage

and despair,

while they tell you

again and again

how terrible their

life has been.

That is

how it was.

For a time

I looked back

on those years

through

the gray veil of

detachment.

Telling myself

those sufferings

made me

stronger.

But as my own children

grow up around me

the gray veil thins.

And in my own healing

I find myself asking:

How did anyone

escape that

mind numbing

madness?

I do not know.

How did I?

I don’t know.