My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Sheryl was haunted by the sound of the septuplets crying simultaneously. The plaintive chorus - unison voices gathering for the same plea - could not, and would not, let her sleep. So she spent day after day in the basement, where the din was muffled, with three dusty pillows pressed over her head. Nothing helped to soothe their wretched music. Not even a drop of breast milk, or a simple shushing, or a sweet, out of tune song to ease the infants' red ears. No food, no diaper changing, not even a pat on the back could stop the distorted symphony. Nothing could stop their noise. She went to every doctor, every nurse, every pediatrician, with a large carriage holding them all, still crying, demanding why. Why was it that they cried so together, and so harshly? The doctors said it was normal. They always said it was normal. Her husband, Darryl, was fairly displeased by how she acted. Why, he could sleep just fine, he argued, and babies were babies. He was an one

The chain was broken around the clasp, so I couldn't fix the necklace as it was. Instead, I palmed the jewel that had once drooped from the silver, placing it into a small oaken box that I kept in the corner of my room. "Will it be safe there?" asked my grandmother, whose wrinkles turned to rivers on her face when bathed in the bedroom light. I nodded. She sighed and sat down. I could hear her back audibly creak as she leaned forward.