I ran out of words one day. I had nothing to say.
I could not explain where I had been and did not know where I was going.
I had no control over my life. I was a case. Part of a caseload. On the desk of a caseworker. Who made it clear that I was lucky to have a moment of her time because I was, after all, I was just one case. And she had too many.
I did not speak. I did not describe what I had seen. So others made up my story for me. They wrote their assumptions down in chicken scratch, on yellow legal pads. Stuffed it into my file. I stopped talking.
I was not sophisticated enough to describe my emotions. But one day I cried so intensely that I have a permanent scar on my face. I honestly believe my tear ducts burst from all the pressure.
Next time you see me, ask and I will show that mark. It’s there to remind me where I come from, to keep me humble and remind me that there is some child out there crying with that same intensity at this very moment. I know their pain.
Souls become silenced by their circumstances. By their pure desire to be loved. By the fact that no one hears them when they have spoken. This silence of their soul makes them vulnerable.
I see children without words sometimes. I see them on the street and on the bus. Alone or being dragged along by another. Look in their eyes and you can see it. A vulnerability. A plea. A loneliness. A desperation. I look at that child and I can see how tired they are. Eventually all hope is snuffed. With age their jaws clench tight as they lose their tears and replace them with the rage of abandonment.
