Frightened faces all in a row, Opening front doors, slowly,staring, noticing the door opening at their own unrecognizable will. I sometimes get a glimpse of these adults with their torn young souls.They think I can't see them, but I can. I see broken yolk.Bright yellow, dripping and glopping into puddles all around her feet as in a dream.Thick mounds harden quickly into an infertile orange rubber paste.What would have formed into memories of childhood play, friendship, and the sweetsmell of familial, like-blood skin and breath, turns hard and useless, discoloring as theoxygen removes the gloss from her existence.
Huston SJ. After the Foster Children. Arch Pediatr Adolesc Med. 2001;155(8):881. doi:10.1001/archpedi.155.8.881