PubliX

In the quiet and the dark I run my fingers against the sides of the tunnel. Cool and damp, smooth like glass. I walked this way, my hands feeling the way until my finger tips grazed a button the size of my palm. Inches above me (though I wasn’t able to see them) I knew there were rough engraved letters that spelled PUBLIX. I push the button in and the door slides, installed years ago by a wealthy doomsday prep fanatic. This is how we get to school now (those of us who have been lucky enough to have found a Publix school), the idea of a building with a bell above and open doors to a school yard something that the littles never even had a chance to forget. The gleeful assault on my senses never gets old. Cashton’s tiny squeal-like laugh fills my ears as the other children chase him in a joyous, archaic, game of tag. "The little are riled up again. I hope lunch isn’t all sugar this time". I grin. She grins. She knows me well. We buy what’s cheap...that’s usually something heavy with sugar. We lost our patron to fear months ago. I throw my backpack to the side. It has felt good to use it again since being here, like it has a purpose again. There’s an open Chromebook in the “Tech” and I power it on. It’s the only safe place to plug in anymore. I scroll through more of the same. Same as a week ago, same as a month ago. Nobody talks about the bad anymore, we all know more is coming, but we also know everyone is recording every keyboard motion and picture upload. Most don’t talk about it because we already know and accept what happened. We’ve survived the Government’s changes. Some of us just came out of it with more emotional scars than others-or with more parents left.  Aliya is peering over my shoulder, “Just post it this time, maybe someone can help?” I chuckle, “What should I write Liya? Dear artificial friends, my emotionally abusive mom took off after the Government decided National Education was a good idea...responsibility and work just weren’t her thing....not sure if I want to find her or punch her...but message me with any intel”. Liya is the one laughing this time, “ Ok, ok, when you’re ready”. I wasn’t ready for anything yet, 18 months and I was still avoiding. I couldn’t force myself to stop and stand still. If I did it would mean that for that moment in time I would feel broken again. I would have to once again sit cross legged on the floor, alone in a giant house, and spread out all the pieces of my cracked home. I’m exhausted from having to put myself together. I want someone to gather up these pieces and make me realize that I don’t have to be put together-whole-to be worthy of healthy love. I think they call those people parents, I wouldn’t know.  Cashton’s grey blue eyes slowly show themselves from behind the computer screen. I move my head sideways, squint, and wrinkle my nose, “is someone ready for a story?” “Yesssss,” he squeals and runs to find a picture book we’ve undoubtedly read to the point of memorization. The old rocking chair is calling my name today. On the corner of a navy blue shag rug that no janitor would ever agree to vacuum. Littered with bean bag chairs and large pillows that we’ve all donated over time. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5..." I chime and a chorus of little voices calls back, "Public school is still alive!"