The glass jar terrarium

I remember dark windows and bright colored walls, a table of empty egg cartons and glass jars and pipe cleaners, and buttons and glue. I remember the room with several toilets lined up in a row, with a partial glass wall, but mostly, just toilets.

I don’t remember using that washroom with other toddlers in it but I remember getting older and thinking it was odd. Because I know we all did use them. Who would send their child to a daycare there was an open room with toilets, were we all used the bathroom, and could be watched by the day care workers?

I remember my best friend Anna would race me to hug onto my mom’s knees, because my mom came before hers and we used to drive her home a lot too. One day we arrived and there were millions (or what seemed like millions) of HUGE cardboard boxes in the middle of the room. I knew I was going to make a castle and be a princess. I know there would be a mote, and towers and a draw bridge. We even had a horse head on a stick that kids would ride around on, ride around my castle.

I remember one day we built terrariums in glass jars with small plants and moss, rocks and water. I remember these jars looked like the jars baby food came in. They had rubber rings on the inside that we were told wouldn’t let them leak.

I remember racing to the car with Anna to see who got to the front door first and who would get to sit next to my mom, up front, and see out the big window.  I remember running, but I don’t remember when I fell.

I opened my eyes and I was on the floor, of the daycare office, facing the ceiling with the bright lights. Had I ever been in this room before now? There weren’t bright colors, just grey walls, a desk and lights that blinked. I remember what people’s faces looked like staring down at me, they were so concerned, and my mom had tears running down her face, and Anna wasn’t there anymore. Where did Anna go?

Then I was in the back seat of my mom’s car, but my mom wasn’t driving she was in the back holding my head up, and that’s when I remember seeing the blood on her hands. There was blood on my Oshkosh blue jeans too, and my pink sweater was stained and ripped. I couldn’t move my hands very much; they were both bandaged and felt numb, my tiny finger nails with bright blue nail polish stuck out. I remember straining my head yup to see out of the backseat windows but being pushed back down into the seat.

 There weren’t any sounds, since we were running to the car with our glass jars Anna and I. My mom spoke to me now through muted lips.