A Baby

There is a baby on the side of the road. It’s lying on its back, wrapped in a dirty lavender sarong. Its arms extend upward, convulsing against the sky. Its body shakes each time a bodah bodah speeds by, coughing up exhaust and red clay. I hover and stare. I’m not breathing and my heartbeat feels like fear. Snot drips from its nose and its eyes are puffy; I wonder if this baby has AIDS.

From across the road, I hear: “Miss? Do you want this baby?” He’s laughing and his teeth are a sterile white. I stare back at him, uncertain and powerless. “Does it have a mother?” I hear myself say. “I think it’s sick.” He’s still laughing, and I force myself not to cry. “You want to take this baby, yah? Do you?” He is mocking me, maybe. I study the fibers of the dirty sarong as his laughter breathes into a sigh. “Don’t worry, Miss, the mother is cleaning the street. She is over there with the broom. This baby is hers. It’s OK.” I lift my gaze to the street and see her walking slowly, the way I might walk under water. She has rough tufts of straw, a plastic red bucket, and a fistful of trash. She wears a huge grin and warm eyes that I trust. She offers me a gentle nod. The baby is hers.