The Essence of Loneliness

Weston Meredith

n/a

 My anticipation was rising as our clown bus neared the orphanage. So far the day had been especially slow and I was ready for the always present energy of an orphanage. The children at the orphanages were almost always ready to play and have fun, and I needed it. The first few days of my trip had been rough emotionally, but I was finally adjusted had a great feeling about our next stop. I was apparently not the only one feeling it; every clown on the bus was mirroring my eagerness.

Animal balloons were squeaking, horns were honking, and the sound of kazoos was apparent. Finally, after a seemingly endless drive, we arrived outside our destination. We all quickly exited the bus and approached the building.

Every day brought a different emotion to a head, no matter what emotion this was a hint of sadness was always close behind. Even though I was already accustomed to this sorrow and loneliness, today would bring a new meaning to the word. 

The inside of the orphanage looked the same as every other, but the atmosphere was completely different. As soon as I entered the huge double doors, the unmistakable sour musty smell of urine surrounded me. It jumped at me, attacked me, it made me completely ill. From that point on I expected the worst. 

Soon after entering the lobby, we were being led down the dark dreary halls of what seemed to be a prison. The walls were torn, the rooms were pathetically small, and it seemed that there was little to no privacy for the kids. Now obviously it wasn’t a prison, but I couldn’t help but think these children were being brutally punished for being born into an unloving family or because the loving parents they had were unfairly taken from them. My emotions were welling up before I even met the children.

I finally got into our predetermined clowning location, and remembered what I had come to Russia for in the first place. All the orphans were in lines, their excitement apparent on their faces. The caretaker left and finally we were able to start the fun. The first few minutes had been great, but my mood had not yet changed. Something was wrong, I could feel it, and so I started to wander.

I started to glance into each and every room. It was clear which rooms were for the orphans and which weren’t. The orphans’ rooms were plain; they housed countless rows of tiny beds, and maybe two pieces of furniture a piece. I decided to check one of the rooms. This room was the epitome of discomfort. Not one of the beds was without itchy, crusty blankets. The mattresses themselves were nothing more than a hard pad on stretched springs. As I completed my search of the room, I approached the window and watched as the city lights illuminated one of its many famous cathedrals.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud shuffling in the corner. At first I thought it must be a rat but as I looked closer I realized it was a boy no older than six. Naturally I approached the boy, and in doing so he started to cry. This had not happened to me before, no child had yet been afraid. I felt sorry that I had startled the boy and let my heart take action. I slowly removed my bright yarn wig and showed him I had normal hair. I then removed my red nose and held it out for him to see. He took the ball of rubber in his own small hand and I could see he was starting to understand.

In his own time, the boy became comfortable with me. He moved from the cold wooden floor to my arms in a matter of minutes. Soon thereafter he again began to cry. I did not need to ask, I knew what was wrong. The boy was alone; he had no one to relate to. He knew I understood and seemed to take comfort in that. For at least one more hour, we sat together crying and watching the lights glisten on the cathedral’s walls.

Even now, three years later, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about that night and know my life was forever changed. I went to spread cheer, and one boy gave me a new life.

All I could give him in return was a bright red nose.