walked up those foreboding steps to
House of St. Giles, Home for the cripple,
only 13 years old
Joanie was there to greet me
Joanie never left St. Giles.
dropped as an infant, a ward of the state
she scared me at first
milky green marbles for eyes,
floating in a sea of white
she was blind.
brown cropped page boy hair flat on her head
one shoe with a larger heel to compensate for one leg being shorter than the other
hard to guess her age
maybe 10
she must have heard me sobbing softly into my pillow,
homesick and frightened –
anxiously waiting spinal fusion surgery to straighten my spine
followed by a body cast for six months
flat. on. my. back
like a vision, she appeared
at the foot of my bed. And sang
“Happy Talk, keep talking happy talk, talk about things you like to do,”
melodious voice and perfect pitch
nothing like her spoken voice,
hoarse with jumbled sounds resembling words
bed mates said she was “retarded”
if she could sing happy talk
there was hope for the six of us girls
confined to steel beds
at St. Giles with scoliosis.
hearing those sing song words
conjured up
images of dancing sunflowers
Joanie was like one of them
blossoming in the depths of despair.
in later years if I heard her song
I’d send sweet Joanie
a silent prayer -
Imaging her still singing
Joanie was there to greet me
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