Mariam lit the kerosene lamp on the table and hunkered down.
In the light, she had her first real close up look at the baby,
the tuft of dark hair, the thick lashed hazel eyes, the pink cheeks, and lips the color of ripe pomegranate.
Mariam had the impression that the baby too was examining her.
She was lying on her back, her head tilted sideways, looking at Mariam intently with a mixture of amusement, confusion, and suspicion.
Mariam wondered if her face might frighten her, but then the baby squealed happily
and Mariam knew that a favorable judgment had been passed on her behalf.
“Shh,” Mariam whispered. “You'll wake up your mother, half deaf as she is.”
The baby's hand balled into a fist. It rose, fell, found a spastic path to her mouth.
Around a mouthful of her own hand, the baby gave Mariam a grin, little bubbles of spittle shining on her lips.
“Look at you. What a sorry sight you are, dressed like a damn boy. And all bundled up in this heat. No wonder you're still awake.”
Mariam pulled the blanket off the baby, was horrified to find a second one beneath, clucked her tongue, and pulled that one off too.
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