Patch of Sunlight...

I want to talk about the little patch of sunlight
something like a silver lining, but painful.

When I was a child I was kept in an institution
a building like a hospital with a wing for a school
and annexes where about two hundred of us lived–
invisible kids, girls without options, abandoned by Community.

We were set to be altered and behaviorally modified
because we were sad, or sick, or “touched”,
or fighting too hard for someone else’s comfort.

The isolation cells were called Observation. Presumably
so we could be observed. 
For our safety, of course. That was the Law.
Our safety must have somehow included a need to break us
of will and spirit
because we would be left in a cell for anything–
Crying too hard
Shouting
Refusing
for laying on the carpet because you wanted nothing else
But to melt into the ground
Rather than stand for another day of control 
and shame.

The floor of the cells were cement,
Blotchy with mystery stains of suspicious origin.
Walls of painted cinder blocks, peeling and textured
(how many hands ran across these on repeat, to feel something?)
And they were empty but for our bodies
And they were always, always cold. 

To pass the time I would sometimes sing
The echoes splashing the cement, and returning to touch me back.
I would walk the perimeter
Fast, then slow. 
Touch the walls. Drum the floor
Until I would tire. Sleepy, and cold.
It was always, always cold. 

In the ceiling of the cells there were no electric lights
But a little skylight
A rectangle of outside. A peek at freedom in that impossible place
And when I would curl up on the floor to rest
I cherished the times when the sun would make a little patch of light
on the cement. 

I would follow that little patch of sunlight wherever it would go
Inching across the floor, chasing warmth
And the glorious feeling of daylight on my skin
Something once so normal as a nap on a lawn chair now a precious respite
from torture. 

I would stay with that rectangle of light until it would become cruel
And climb up a wall, up too far to reach
And then it would vanish altogether.
I'd tuck my knees up in my shirt to sleep. 

We learned to find these patches. To soak up every bit of light we could 
Secret glances, silent giggles, hands held in the dark.
It’s not a silver lining… 
Not optimism, but survival. 
We learned to be grateful for warmth inside of abuse
And not to hope, not to expect.  

I’m grown now
and still grateful for every moment of sunlight
Yet still learning that I’m deserving, safe, and free.

~Jen Robison