grading curve

Part I: Sunday

It is my first day back home. I have risen slowly, taking my time to wake in my own room, in my own yard. Your cries startle, bring my eyelids open, so I shuffle out of my round, thatched-roof room to meet you.

Sunday. Sunday boy, your mother calls you. She waves a sudsy hand up at me – “Good morning!” and plunges it back into the wash basin with our slough of grimy, travel-stained clothes. My tired glance finds you, a little bundle perched on our lawn in the shade, a pile of material around your little legs. Your perfect spherical eyes are glazed over, gazing up at my glowing visage as I tousle my hair out of my eyes to see you more clearly. Sunday boy, your skin is perfect chocolate and you are so cute.

In my dazed half-awake state, I realise that lifting you in my arms is better left for later. I have two months to hold you, I think to myself, smiling in security. I am not leaving for a while. We have weeks to get to know each other. I tear my eyes from yours – brown on brown – and walk towards my morning coffee.

Part II: Monday

I am working on my final paper for the semester, on the night it is due. I am revising my thesis with a friend after a warm meal with guests. A mug of tea is in my right hand and I am glowing with the knowledge of finality, the end of a day and a semester.

My mother gasps, startling us. The next few moments blur by, the question WHY resounds in my bones. They did all they could. It was sudden, unexpected. No one saw it coming; he was so healthy. This is the second child they have lost this year.

The paper, my world of the past few days, lies forgotten before me as the computer screen blends into a single white glow in front of my eyes. My hands shake, and I cannot force myself to care about theories of modernity when I never held him. I never picked up Sunday boy. He is gone and I never held him.

Somewhere, his mother is wailing in the night; I am pressing send on a half-finished paper and we are all crying out to God in the dark to spare us this heartache that has been cut out of us so quickly.

Part III: Tuesday

It is one of my last days in Uganda, and I am waiting, watching in the corner of the back room of the clinic. The doctor is beside me, giving instructions in a loud and firm voice. Our white gloves are sticky with blood and fluids as a woman I have never seen before in my life swears violently on the table before us, clutching her knees as her abdomen heaves.

I will spare you the details, but the first thing we see is his hair. Tight curls, damp against his scalp. Quickly, suddenly, his face squirms out into the world. His cries light up my heart. He is healthy, beating the air with tiny fists.

All sorts of things that I don’t understand are happening around us. Clamps, towels, scissors, and you wailing, little new boy. Welcome.

You are weighed and wrapped, little one. Your reflexes are perfect. You are placed with gloved hands by your mother’s side, where she embraces and nourishes you. Not my hands – I never held you.

Tiny, unnamed boy. Culture says you will remain nameless until it seems you are here to stay.

Stay, child, until I can return to hold you.

volcano ice dancer.

She is dancer

swaying, moving BRIGHT

burning, energy flowing always through her

Oh, child, you will never slow down or stop or focus

you are a sparkler, flying

crazylittlecurvybutterfly

voice like raw honey and ice

clear, pure, rippling through hallways and doors

smile that cuts straight to the heart and curls up there

dimples wrapping around the strings and playing your mind like you didn’t think it could

inspiration. and then eyes burn into you completely,

icy warm blue, this volcano child stares out at the world below

tangly bracken of hair.

I found an old notebook and in it was a torn-out piece of paper with these words:

(These are a child’s impressions of a street entertainer.)

the dancer steps forward

Hips whirling frantically

as she turns and twists.

Sweat drips from her dark brow,

her hands extended from her sides,

twisting, reaching.

The men whoop and cheer

their scraggled beards and hair

dusty

their eyes gleam hungrily

as the beer bottles clink and slosh.

The dark hair on their arms

caked with dust

that flies off in little clouds

as they reach greedy fingers at her.

She bites her lip, her eyes

look like they might burst with tears

any second

the grass skirt rustles

twisting, twirling

around her thick, curved legs

bare feet shuffle the dust.