Skor-ra Skor-ra

On the first day, I open the big, wooden door and the children shout across the room "Masha, Mama". They were told I was coming today. She comes and stands in the doorway, clutching a softened piece of dark chocolate. She tilts her head and stares at me. I stare at her and time moves around us. I barely hear the other children and the word "Mama". In seconds or hours, she connects and her face lights up. Grinning and laughing, she launches herself into my arms and I fall to the chair someone has thought to put behind me. Holding. Laughing. Crying. "Oh my baby, my beautiful baby", my mind cries and the words tumble out. Then, her caregivers whisks her away to change into appropriate clothing, from a faded cotton smock to a green, velvet dress one size too big.

For weeks I come to this children's home, this orphanage, this place where children are alone, without a real sense of protection, care and family love. Four hours a day in my allotted time slot. To be with this child, to have her get to know me. From 10:00 a.m. until noon and then back again from 1:00 p.m. until 3:00 p.m. I know how to tell these times in my heart.

The orphanage caregivers lead me into another room, a miniature school with Cyrillic alphabet posters and games. This child comes in and shows me the photographs I have mailed to her months before. She opens to the picture of me and laughs. "My-ya Mama, my-ya tsert-tsa" she says, announcing to everyone and anything around. "My Mama, my heart" And she lets me touch her arm.

For days her only words to me are "Pas-ma-tree Mama", "Look Mama" and she goes through every item in the room and has me play with it. Later, fervently talking, telling me the stories and songs of who she is, where she is. She teaches me, mimicking what has been taught to her. And I teach her and she laughs. Blue is a very funny word and she cannot stop laughing but does not attempt to say it. For days, she shows me something blue, just so I can say the sounds, and we both can laugh. This little girl has an amazing zest for life, a sense of humor. She lets me put white, creamy lotion on her hands all the while nervously giggling.

I struggle through her words. As the days go by, we both understand each other more. She stays with me over a weekend, constantly talking and gesturing to be sure I understand her. Jabbering, as if to ward off the silence that will show something in her that she is afraid I won't like. At night, she cannot sleep. I am still a stranger to her. Weeping, she wants to go back to the familiar, the orphanage. Yet, when she sleeps, she says two words like a mantra, in perfect English. She says "Love" and "Beautiful", repeating the words that she cannot say while awake.

Weeks have gone by and we both are drained from the routine, she asks "Mama when can I go home with you?" and I tell her "Skor-ra, My-ya Doch, Skor-ra", "Soon my daughter, soon". She does not handle the parting too well. Nor do I but I won't show her this. I wait until my agency driver lets me in the van and he touches my shoulder and we both cry. Releasing what I dare not feel in front of this tiny, little child. Knowing that my driver understands as he must wait outside during the visits, not because he cannot go in by rules, but he does not want to see all the children, they clamor to him and call him Papa. This father cannot hold in the pain. He knows how hard it is to leave her each day. He knows how hard it is to go to her each day.

On our next visit, she is laughing with a frenzied intensity. We play and are running out of things to play with as we have covered everything in the room, sometimes even twice. The driver comes in today because we must hurry to meet the translator to go over the tangle of court paperwork. This little girl sees him and knows I must leave again without her. She collapses in a corner and rocks. No tears, just slowly rocking alone. I go to her and lift her arm, it falls back into place, she makes no move to me, she makes no sound. She sits, crumpled on the floor, slowly swaying from side to side. The misery and anguish in this child that I staved off for so long, engulfed me. No family, no security, and no hope. My little daughter hears my heart and soul moan ...she cries out and stops... silent again and rocking. She feels for me there, behind her, stroking her back and she crawls into my lap, allowing me to hold her as she starts to howl.

Suddenly, as we cling to each other, her caregiver comes and takes her away. I understand what she is telling my daughter. "If you cry, your Mama won't want you" she says and I sit on the floor alone, trying to stuff my heart and my pain into a tiny, dark box. I am chanting, "No! Her Mama needs her to cry" but my words are lost.

The driver finds me on the floor, powerless to move, powerless to see and powerless to speak. This man, who knows little English, who barely knows me, puts his hand out to me and helps me from the floor. We can hear the sobbing in the next room. My driver, my friend says, "Skor-ra, Skor-ra, Soon, Soon you home with her." And I know there is nothing I can do, there is nothing I can say. I cannot help her in this place; I cannot help her from this place but Skor-ra, Skor-ra...soon soon.