Honey Nut Cheerios tumble into my older sister Roz’s bowl, the cascading round O’s matching her blue eyes. I carefully pour milk into her bowl, making sure that her Cheerios are evenly covered.
I am Roz’s prevention policy against frustration; I spoon her sour cream, set minutes on the microwave, and towel-dry the glass dishes. Spilled milk, crystal shards, tears; in these things resides the reality of disability.
Putting down the carton, I ask her, “Are you going to miss me while I’m London? Four months is a long time.”
“Yeah, I’m going to miss you.” Picking up her spoon, Roz looks up at me.
“Who’s going to pour my milk in the morning?”
A month later, I trudge through the breathing rooms of the London Imperial War Museum. Taking the antique, metal elevator up to the Crimes Against Humanity floor, I enter the Holocaust exhibit. These rooms are cooler than the rest, more quiet, still with secrets. I pass Hitler, and the smell of burning books wafts to my mind as faded Stars of David on blue breast pockets droop behind smudgy glass panes.
I glance to my right, and my stomach turns at the sight of a gleaming white table. I cannot yet read the plaque, yet somehow I know this table’s story. It is not a good one. As I draw closer to it, the table seems to rest on its haunches, taunting me, sinister and slick, its clean white metal hiding dirty black deeds.
The dark room propels me forward, betraying me, forcing me to stumble forward unwillingly. I stand before the table, and read:
Children…mental retardation…T-4…genocide rehearsal…unfit for society…sterilization…experiment…
Murder.
The words on the plaque blur together. I turn to the table, its dead red eyes reflecting children’s screams and their naked exposure to white-coated probing, flashing cameras and sharp instruments, scientists taking detached notes and emotionlessly practicing their cruel sciences under the guise of research and –
I see my sister’s face in the scared eyes of the littlest ones.
In an alcove off to the side, I sit on a bench in the darkness and grieve. Next door, the sterile and sightless scientists sit, still and silent in their frames, the horror of their actions forever frozen.
Wiping my eyes, I desperately wish to ask them, “Would you have thought differently if you poured her cheerios every morning?

