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The water table lured a stream of children to its side. A large rectangle on legs, it stood by the window with funnels and tugboats floating on its surface. But the liquid itself was the biggest draw. Pouring it, feeling it, doing anything with water would lull these three-year-olds into its flow.
Today only Nina stood by the water, her black hair framing a solemn face. She filled a plastic cup with water and held it up in the air.
“This is milk,” she pronounced. She poured out the water and filled the cup again. “This is poison.”
Nina emptied and filled that cup over and over again in her own hypnotic rhythm. Another girl brought a baby doll over to wash in the water. Nina didn't miss a beat.
“This is milk. This is poison.” She spoke out loud to no one, but I was listening.
After the seventh cup, I spoke. “This one is milk, and it is good to drink. That one is poison, and it can hurt you.”
Nina darted away. From the other side of the room, she gave me a sideways glance. She stayed as far away from me as she could get, while I bit my upper lip.
What had I done?
I thought my words would be harmless, a mere repetition of hers with a millimeter of meaning attached. I had hoped they would let her know I heard her. How did I alarm her instead?
She had been pouring poison in and out of her cup until my words stopped her, as if the poison turned real when I spoke. I should never have linked play with harm. It was weeks before she would come near me again.