Only At Night

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At night, when I'm here, all the babies lie quiet with their eyes closed. The ones that have eyes.

At night, covered with sheets against the whisper of air in the wards, the children begin to look almost human. I walk between the cribs of deserted newborns and the railed beds of the older ones, sometimes trying not to burst into tears. I touch them, gently, trying to soothe them. Most of them aren't capable of being soothed. They're all waiting to die. Sometimes one awakens and lies there helpless and immobile, staring up. They never cry. I hold them and wonder if they think the dull pinpoints of light on the ceiling are stars.

Tonight most of the children are awake. It might be the heat, which is too much for the air conditioning. I do what I can, touch them, change diapers (I am reprimanded if I use too many), offer water. I wish I weren't here. It's too quiet and the air is too heavy and no one's here to talk to. On other wards someone will awaken and need the reassurance of companionship to go back to sleep. Or I'll whisper a story to a child and he'll correct me if I change a line until we both begin to giggle, try to stop, and just laugh harder. But these children don't need bedtime stories. A record of gibberish would do as well. They don't need me. Maybe if they had always had love they would be able to want it and accept it now, but all they need is food and cleaning and a place Out of the rain. To them I'm an automaton, wound up and set to take care of them.

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