I shift restlessly on the hard, black, plastic seat, and the greedy air enters through the cracks of the bullet-proof doors, past the security guards and the condemned awaiting their fate. The flimsy handles of the plastic Food 4 Less bags full of personal effects that litter the sitting area dance like stalks of wheat. Feet tap in anxious waiting. In the doorway to Department 201, a mother and her child embrace and release a stomach-churning wail, a primitive howl that erupts from the depths of their misery. It is a bleating, fog horn sob that penetrates the thin fabric of my pinstriped pants, making my leg hairs stand on end. Mom, with her white flowered hat and clic-clac heels, turns and staggers by me, the weight of her angst pulling her down, and the rawness of her being pushing her past. Her bright pink lace, alive and flapping in the cold wind, stands in stark contrast to the quiet, judging metal detectors. The sound of her steps remains long after she is gone, skipping like a stone in the silence of her wake. Her daughter follows, stumbling and dropping the 99-Cent Store bag full of clothes, not looking back but only forward to comfort her mother. Their wailes echo through the halls of the courthouse, resonating in the chest of every mother seated in her unrelenting chair. Some watch; a few stand for a better view. Most bow their heads and drink in the sorrow as a tree drinks fresh rainfall — deliberately, cautiously, gratefully. All drown in the waves of the warped linoleum floor.
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