imperfect prose on thursdays: kisses for kasher

i rise weary in the night with the moon-mother in her white shawl and together we lift baby to breast and feed on the old rocking chair, the one my grandmother used to use. it creaks with the sway of my hips and baby’s jaws move and swallow and i think of my pillows with their creases. and i pray to stay awake while lactating mothers across africa are begging the skies for one more drop of milk to feed their infants, dying.

i lay him back amongst blankets blue and walk the carpet to my bedroom, thinking of their black worn feet treading dust and dirt, stumbling into refugee camps, babes tied lifeless to back and tiny graves marking the way.

and i lay folded into the angles of my husband, and pray God keeps his angels ’round us when Where are the angels of africa?

in the morning, aiden is the first to hear his brother, and before i can make it to the nursery he’s standing there in his pajamas, soother in hand, waiting at kasher’s door, waiting to give kasher kisses. “uh-oh” he says, seeing me, meaning “uh-oh, baby’s crying and i’m here to help” because his heart is big that way.

he doesn’t know about africa, about the thousands of babies wailing and no one there to feed them soothers or milk or kisses, and if he did know, he’d be there, as any child would, standing at africa’s door with supplies in his hand and tears in his eyes.

i open the door and he runs to the crib, exclaims at the sight of his brother crying, and holds out the soother, desperate to take baby’s tears away.

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