A girl possessed

Crystal is a whirlwind. Even her hair is topsy and turvy, always tied up in uneven fistfuls, part lines crooked and pigtails askew.

She enters the playroom at a dead sprint, beelines for the rocking horse and rocks furiously for 13 seconds before beelining again to the next brightly-colored object that catches her eye. Seven minutes later, having shaken and tossed every toy in the room, she simply spins, arms out and chin to the ceiling, in the middle of the linoleum floor.

Even as four-year-old's go, Crystal is almost alarmingly energetic. But what is being four, if not for spinning, jumping and tearing about? Childhood manifests itself vibrantly in Crystal. She is a girl possessed by a bounding, leaping soul.

Lullaby

Javier's onsie has a two small holes in it: one under the armpit, and one around his ankle, where the 'footie' meets the leg. It's second-hand, and stained in a few places, but it's clean and freshly pressed. He's been dressed with love, which can never be shabby.

I press my nose against his baby-sweet neck. Scents of soap, warmth and a mother's perfume are nestled there. I cajole and cuddle him, and his face lights with a silly, toothless grin at the tickling sensation of being smothered in kisses.

His small head teeters on a wobbly neck, straining to investigate the world of the ceiling above him. Eyes rest and focus on a rainbow-colored kite suspended from sagging tiles. In a gentle voice I tell him of light and prisms, color and sunshine. He listens, gnawing thoughtfully on a dump truck as I speak.

We spend the hour similarly engaged, while a dozen other children shout and sing, laugh and give chase around the toy room. Javier stands, tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and bounces with enthusiasm. I point out that he is quite a big boy now, and soon will join the teeming mob. Childhood will soon be upon him, complete with all the mysteries and whimsy that are his right.

A whistle blows, and my shift is over. His mother, young but so loving, is waiting at the door. With pride and affection she cradles him, and he joyfully buries his small face in her breast. Softly, and as rhythmic as the shuffle of her slippered feet against the linoleum, she hums a Spanish lullaby. Her music creates an acoustic veil between Javier and the din of the homeless shelter and, lulled as if by incantation, he becomes unconscious of the turmoil surrounding him, feeling only that he is safe and loved.

Back, and complaining already...

Back in the states again, and logging in to my poor, neglected blog after all these long months. If you know me, you know that we're happily settled in Boston with new jobs, a new apartment and even a small, white dog to complete the picture. Newton was named after the famous Sir Isaac. He doesn't exactly live up to his namesake in the intelligence department, but he's extra cuddly, so I let it slide.

The beauty of blogging to an audience of none: no explanation for my absence, or these changes listed above, is necessary. Therefore, I will jump headlong into my blog once again. This time, I hope it will be with a more disciplined posting schedule.

Another perk of having no followers: no one minds what I say. In light of this, I will be saying any and every thought which illuminates the inner caverns and pathways of my pretty little head. Ah, freedom! Another word for "no one cares."

Let me begin, then, by complaining. As a new resident to the metamorphosing neighborhood of East Boston (or Eastie, to those who frequent such haunts as Trainor's or Kelly's Square Pub), I am shocked and appalled at the state of the neighborhood's trash collection practices.

The problem is, residents are encouraged to leave their bags of trash on the ground the night before trash collection day. Dirty. And the filth is then compounded by the fact that East Boston is infamous for its skunk population. I'm sure I don't need to describe the scenes of garbage carnage and destruction one witnesses the following morning. Yesterday, I stepped over a stinking tray of discarded chicken fat, covered in flies and maggots.

What really shocks me, however, is the simplicity of the solution: trash bins. A trash bin, with a proper lid, would reduce litter, render street sweeping almost unnecessary and relieve the citizens of East Boston from the horrors of a putrid, reeking river of trash each Tuesday morning as they walk to work.

I intend to solve all social ills on the blog. Check back frequently.