Holly B.

Good Morning

Not even the sun is awake.
Our sweet dreams are interrupted by the high
pitched shrieking of an unhappy baby.
Eight toddlers stand in their cribs, their eyes puffy
with sleep and scowls on their soft, tan faces.
One by one, we seven volunteers will
shuffle out of our Pepto Bismal-pink,
crowded bedroom. The older girls will start
to toss and turn in their beds as the sunlight
creeps through the curtains and pries open their
thin eyelids. Within a minute the house
will sound like Fenway Park during a Sox-
Yankees game. Scrambling to clean dirty diapers
and shove feet into too-small sneakers while
the kids try to hit us and scream in our ears.

“A la mesa!” Someone cries out. We head
down to the cafeteria while multiple
kids fill our arms and hold our hands. A swarm
of girls surrounds us trying to touch the
toddlers and cooing at them in Spanish.
Their arms are outstretched for us to give them a
child, but we know better. Maria the
cook calls out a “Buenos dias!” to us and we
smile back at her. The clatter of plates
and the tinkle of silverware surrounds
the mass of children while the hum of their
sweet, sleepy, melodic voices rises
into the chilly Guatemalan dawn


Copyright 2002-2007 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.