Romania, 1990

I never talked about the rooms of orphans languishing in beds - still corridors, like wombs, that darkened pictures in our heads, escorting us through tombs. No unseeing their hopeless eyes, tied in their cribs, such tiny souls - and eerily, no cries. Ceausescu's children paid their tolls amidst the buzzing flies. I could not save each child in need, just one small baby, sweet and small - more than just a good deed. I wished that I could take them all, and I will always bleed.