Womb
Is that her granddaughter?
No, that’s her daughter
She’s wearing a loose Disney print jumper
Completed by her real grandmother
Because her real mother is in a room
She’s swinging her legs fiercely between the edge of the chair
And the so-many-colored-that-you-don’t-notice-a-stain-carpet
Her doll fingers pretend they’re legs and run
Races on the wooden chair sides
In an hour she’ll have her first ever French toast
With green, blue and pink people
The dish is cold and hours stiff
It’s here though, so it’s good
This place smells the same, warm, but faint, cleaning chemicals
No stronger or lighter from one room to another
This place is a womb
Comfort and warmth and quiet enclose her
People talk quietly, sing quietly, cry quietly
In this place
Where this little girl’s umbilical cord
Lets her roam down hallways
Looking at the pointy things, the pouch things, and the thin snake things
Gentle heartbeats come from open doors
On some days the beats stop when she walks down the halls
Miniature wheels roll along the lots-of-colors flat carpet
There’s no hurry here, or worry
People smile at the little girl when they pass her in the hall
Or when they look out through their doors
These aren’t the green, blue, pink people
Who smile out of the rooms
These are the gray people
She knows she likes these people
She doesn’t know why though, because she is five
And five year olds don’t know things
Somedays she walks into rooms because she likes to see bright things
There are bright flowers on the tables on the beds
The room is buzzing and the people in the beds don’t look at her
Even when she tells them about her yesterday
She always says goodbye though
Because the people won’t be there later and they let her smell their flowers.