She didn’t make a sound. Her small eyes looked left and right, not quite fixing on any one thing. But she didn’t cry. She was noiseless.
It was larger this time. Ill-fitted to her tiny body. Her soft feet and hands seemed so insubstantial – weightless – against the enormity of her swelling head.
Little Grace. Hydrocephalic. Abandoned.
The nurses named her Grace. And perched behind her shallow bed is a cardboard donation box with, “help take care of me” scrawled in black marker. Grace lies quietly. A winter cap stretches over her head much as her skin stretches over her skull. Tiny blue veins are visible beneath her near translucent latte-colored skin.
I spoke softly to her, cooing in what I hope was a soothing tone, stroked her tiny foot – smaller than my smallest finger, and prayed a quick prayer that she is painless. She was silent under my voice, my touch, my prayer.
The nurses named her Grace – I hope grace finds her.
Tags: health, liberia, observations
This experience you’re having, and they way you tell it, is book worthy.
I’d read it.