My head is filled with their faces most nights, when I first lay down and my day rushes through my mind in process form. Their faces are always the first images, mostly her face. She's looking away, eyes down. Then her eyes are fixed on mine, unable to look away, eyelids caught open. Then her head is fallen forward and her eyes are the only thing holding her head up, and she whispers, "I'm sorry." Fear-full. Shame-full.

And I wonder if my guilt is well founded, or if this must be how they learn to follow rules. I attempt to comb through that day's frustrations, that day's angers. Maybe I should yell less. Maybe she should never feel shamed.

I comfort myself with promises of reduction of yelling and shame-inducing looks. And I reach for the echoes of laughter, the seconds pregnant with grace and innocence and abandon. And I usually fall asleep.

Perhaps this is a good definition of original sin - knowing the evil so well that it turns to habit then using the good to deaden the pain.