The year 1970 something, my floors are a patchwork of vinyl and brown shag carpet. Five little ones would enter under my roof prior to number six, but in order to understand the reason for my having the ability to share their stories it requires my jumping years forward to when number six was roughly four years of age.
There on the living room floor in a sliver of light she laid, her auburn hair tousled across the shag. Her hand reaching into the air, her little finger twisting and turning at the shimmers of dust that the sunlight cast through the orange colored curtain. The despair and sadness that filled me grew stronger as a rage filled the heart of the figure they called “Dad”. Often the curtains were drawn and the doors shut as though they were attempting to keep the contents of me from spilling out. As number six laid mesmerized by the dancing flicks of dust she would push her lips tightly together and hum a soft tune that would be broken by a giggle. Her nose would scrunch causing her freckles to disappear, she would squirm and pull as though there was another little one lying beside her tickling and disrupting her tune. She would turn toward my window that was dressed in orange and beige and begin to mumble. The noise from the surrounding houses would for a moment capture my attention when her clear words of what appeared to be a conversation between two individuals would quickly draw me back to her wondering if one of the other numbers had quietly snuck in while I was distracted with the neighborhood fuss. But I would find her still laying there alone, now on her side, her dark brown eyes piercing the sunlight as her little mouth spoke “I don’t know why, it just is” as her hand reached out in front of her as to comfort someone or something. “I have to be here, you don’t” she continued. Her attention would be broke by the footsteps of number 5 running toward the screen door. “You get to go now” she whispered. She quickly jumped to her feet and headed down the hall way.
I had watched five before her age from infancy, none of them quite so as intriguing and entertaining as number six. This little one’s demeanor would change rapidly, in one moment she would be grasping the attention of the others with her silly antics and charm to seeking a quiet sanctuary in my closets. I would watch, at times confused as she appeared to be trying to entertain of what I thought at the time was an empty room. I would watch as she would pull her covers up over her head to hide from that in which she feared. I watched...
