Reparation

One thing I love about my job is that I get to cook for those angry kids, and do their dishes. I get to bring them extra blankets and glasses of water. I get to drive them to the hospital and the hairdresser. I get to wash and fold their laundry and I get to scrub the kitchen floor. Sometimes, I get to pray for them, and sometimes, I get to see them listening. I get to fill out papers, check for urine, count the knives, turn on the alarms, watch my back.
And, on the odd night, when they aren't so angry with me that the air is blue with their words, I get to hear them ask me to tuck them in - into their beds with wheels, and walls without pictures. I tuck them in tight, and with the blankets I tell them the story (like my mom used to do) about the clouds covering the sun, about the air turning black and the thunder and lightening, about the crashing and the banging and the whole bed shaking, with them, under the covers. And then, I get to tell them how after all the noise, how the sun came out and burned up the those dark clouds. I get to pull back the blankets and see those twelve year old boys look like they are three and try my damnedest not to smile too much into their wide eyed faces.