I lost my baby today.

I had it in my bag and was about to leave the house for town when the call came.

The shutdown is on, said the CWS staffer. It’s happening. I’ll get an email to you. No more classes until who knows when.

We were going to read the checkout counter story today. The customer unloading her cart—her tea, soup, eggs, juice—unthinkingly picks up her infant and puts him by the cash register, like he’s just another grocery item. We could’ve played out the scenario, using my doll I sometime haul to class.

We were going to sample pickles today, too. The customer in another story, one about pickles, spits out her mouthful, and some of the class would’ve been put off by my store dills, but others would’ve loved them. I could’ve sent what was left in the jar along home with somebody.

I think I’ll come in anyway, I told the staffer. She gave me an address.

The family I was able to visit, among the last to get into the U.S. before the flights ceased, in temporary lodging, had food, a kitchen of sorts, heat, a bathroom with towels, a laundry room. They asked me to explain the microwave. The fridge. The coffeepot. We talked and talked.

I’ll go back. We’ll practice more English. When is the new baby due? I asked, today. We were looking at a calendar, open to June. “Sed,” replied the mother.

I didn’t understand. Sed?

Oh. Thed. Third. Th is hard, and so is r. June third, the mother was saying. The third of June.

So yes, next time we’ll talk more.

Maybe I’ll see my baby, even. I’d brought my bag with my doll and lesson papers down in, and when I pulled it out for the 3-year-old to play with, such glee. She wrapped it in something and went around snuggling and kissing it.

I’ll get to see my baby, unless she’s already loved it to death.

(The first photo is blurry, but look how she’s clutching.)

 


 

 





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