A Question
It’s early spring, Monday morning, a school time, and I can’t help but dare to ask a question.
I feel like my feet are just about to disappear into a wooden floor, drowning at a sand hollow, as I dare to speak out.
"Where do the tears come from when I cry?" Asking while raising my hand at the same time. Asking questions in class is not something I would normally do; fear holds me back.
“Stand up”, a grown-up teacher commands as she searches in the crowd of 32 kids, sitting neatly at their desks, with hands crossed at their backs, for the voice asking the question. I do as I am told.
“Silence, everyone!”, she hushes the chaos, I’ve caused, pressing her finger against her lips, painted with a red lipstick. It is unheard of that a kid from an orphanage would ask a question. Everyone knows that we are weirdos, who are not easy to understand and get along with.
She makes sure the whole classroom stays still and quiet. Her look always works. In her 30, she is not afraid to wear a tight black skirt, a beehive brown haircut, a brown blouse with revealing buttons, and high red heels. Elegant. Her aura has a silent authority, you can tell, especially when she talks about the Czech grammar, she makes sure we all listen. I am not afraid of her.
The school is made of large, orange bricks with stone stairs that I love to run down when the day is over. The hallways feel like empty spaces in a church, where my own thoughts seem to echo. The principal's presence demands discipline and quiet from all of us. The school is usually warm, unlike the orphanage. Children attend classes from first grade to ninth. And when no one is looking, I enjoy slipping off my shoes and gliding down the stairs from the fifth floor all the way to the basement, where jackets and shoes are stored until the doorbell announces it’s time to leave the school.
At age 8, I am always curious about why things happen. Why can't I have the answers beforehand? And why do I have to rely on grown-ups for understanding my world? As I rise to my feet, my mind is racing, eager to hear the grown-up's teacher's response, and curious about what her answer might be.
“An interesting question, you’ve asked”, she said it almost to herself. “Come forward,” gesturing with her hand towards me to come closer. She knew I would follow her orders without hesitation.
The classroom is big, but the children's eyes are even bigger, they are all on me, resembling the wide-eyed gaze of the frog I once found in the grass and gently returned to its watery home. Beyond the orphanage lies a peaceful pond where a symphony of nature plays out each day as I sit and quietly observe.
Nestled on a hill, the school building is quite a distance from the orphanage. It takes me 45 minutes to make the journey back, whereas for other kids, it only takes 25 minutes. If I didn't always have thoughts of running away, perhaps my trip would also take just 25 minutes as well. As I walk, I pass by the train station and wonder what it would be like if the black locomotive beauty whisked me away and brought me to my mama.
“Where do the tears come from when I cry?" I repeat my question, this time, facing the whole world.
The whole classroom bursts into fake laughter, and even the sand hole got deeper, I still manage to look at the grown-up teacher, ignoring the noise around me. Her gaze meets mine, and it's as if we're in a private world.
“I don’t know”. She answers, almost silently.
In her answer, I could hear her saying, "I'm sorry," as if she was trying to comfort me for the tears I shed; not because she doesn't know the answer. When she told me to go back to sit down, the whole classroom got quiet again, and things went back to normal.
If the grown-up teacher didn’t know, would my mama know the answer to my question? My mama doesn’t know it either, I’ve come to the conclusion, otherwise she would be here.
It took me 45 min to get back to the orphanage. After the dinner, doing my homework, taking a shower, now lying in my bed, in the dark of all double beds and the moon peeking into the big bedroom, I realize, even grown-ups don’t make any sense, sometimes, it’s better keep my thoughts to myself. That way, no one can hurt me.
“Psst!” A girl, older than me, a curly hair, wearing a blue square strikes pajama, the moon’s light lets me to see her - peeking behind her pillow, interrupted my thoughts. Lying in her bed across of mine, curious, she asks: “Why did you ask about the tears today at school?”
“What? Who told you?” I asked with a surprise.
“The whole orphanage knows about it, you silly.” She said, whispering, almost smiling.
“When I cry my tears a lot - so If I knew where they come from, I would be able to stop them,” answering the girl’s question, turning my back towards her, hoping she would stop talking.
“I know where mine comes from. I'm not sure about yours, though. Wanna know about mine?” She keeps whispering. We all know that it is way past our bedtime, so we shouldn’t be talking.
She continues. “I cry my tears because I miss my mama. Maybe she'll pick me up next Sunday afternoon.” I could hear one of her tears fell down onto her pillow.
“Hey, wanna see the biggest eyes ever? I can show you tomorrow after school.” I quickly spoke the words, hoping to stop another her tear from falling onto her pillow.
“Cool, Yeah, ok….” She murmured, followed by a soft exhale, drifting off into the realm of dreams.
I’ve come to the conclusion that frogs’ eyes are more interesting than asking questions, only because, quite often, a question holds its answer already. And as I gazed at the moon, my mind began to drift off into the world of my imagination before sleep took over as well.
Your feedback is highly appreciated. Thank you!
