tea and sympathy

Dim sunlight filters in through the window and spills onto the small table in the center of the room, illuminating cups of hot, sweet tea, a plate of soft, white bread and a basin of cool water. The heels of my shoes are sinking into the mud floor. Rows of stools and small chairs fill the edges of the room. A single bed sits to one side of the room; a sheet hanging from the ceiling separates 'bedroom' from 'sitting room'. A knife leaning against the window sill denotes 'kitchen'. 






We are crowded together in this small home, knees meeting awkwardly as we hunch over our seats and reach for our tea. Mine is hot, too hot to drink anytime soon. I grasp the cup and wait. A small girl wearing a ski cap stands in the doorway watching me solemnly. She reaches for my hand. She takes some bread. She barely moves when a chicken pushes past her to get into the house.

Now from the bed in the corner comes the soft crying that reminds us why we are here. The baby's mother is young. Too young, and she delivered her baby three nights ago, in her home, alone. We want to see the baby, to hold her. We give the mother food, and clothing, and diapers, and prayers and advice: please, please keep her warm. Keep breastfeeding. Go to a clinic. Take her for a check up. Please. Please. Please.
 

 




And now I'm taking pictures to print for them later; pictures of the grandmother, of the mother, of the baby, of the neighbour girl in her cap. Pictures of our tea and our bread. Kim helps: pictures of my thumb, of his chin, of our toes. 

And now we're praying and now we're standing to leave and now we are walking home and all I can do, all we can do, is pray that the mother stays healthy, that she receives the help she needs, that she does the best she can.

  



             It's all any of us can do: the best we can.