Open Class With Mothers

The cadavers came in to watch us teach, but it’s better to say they came in and hoisted us up on tenterhooks. You could only look at them out of the corner of your eye as you addressed their children, as you sought to make the little ones laugh and sing with majestic sweeps of your arms, and bows, and shouts, always careful to pretend that there was not a distinct presence of dry decaying mold in the air, and that a dozen or so wigged and powdered skulls, with sunken shadowed kimchi-colored eye sockets, were not set on bony shoulders at the back of the room. Adamant and rhadamant they followed your movements and unwillingly displayed the vanity of all earthly youth, how to have a child is to have wrinkled bags under your eyes and to donate your last young years to the odd little smelly sweaty creatures scattered around the tables giggling kicking their legs stinking up the room.

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