The chubby baby is covered in pox. "Have they been sick in the past 12 months?" I ask. It seems like only a formality, as the young mother reaches for her four year old, and yanks up the dirty red shirt. His dark skin is speckled with oozing wounds.
"They are always sick," you say. "We are always sick."
"How old is the mother of this house?" I ask. 29, you say. Your husband is still in Haiti, you say.
You look at your older sons, and they are combing their hair into corn-rows. The oldest looks away when you say this.
"How many children?"
"Six."
I look around, and there are three boys, and two babies. The girl in font of you is holding your youngest, and he is crying. You look to us for permission, and we nod. You put him on your right breast.
"Two are still in Haiti," you say.
The girl holding your baby watches me, and smiles politely. 12, 13 years old.
My French is poor, but your 4-year-old covered in pox gives me a weak smile-- ça va?
I am not outraged.
If these were me, wouldn't I maintain outrage?
We are always sick but,
"They are always sick," I say.
