by Erin Belieu

When I think of the many people

who privately despise children，

I can't say I'm completely shocked，

having been one. I was not

exceptional， uncomfortable as that is

to admit， and most children are not

exceptional. The particulars of

cruelty， sizes Large and X-Large，

memory gnawing it like

a fat dog， are ordinary： Mean Miss

Smigelsky from the sixth grade；

the orthodontist who

slapped you for crying out. Children

frighten us， other people's and

our own. They reflect

the virused figures in which failure

began. We feel accosted by their

vulnerable natures. Each child turns

into a problematic ocean， a mirrored

body growing denser and more

difficult to navigate until

sunlight merely bounces

off the surface. They become impossible

to sound. Like us， but even weaker.