August 28. Resilience.

His bright, blue eyes were almost enough to distract you from seeing the large goose-egg bump on his fractured head. His eyebrows and lashes matched a full head of flaming red hair, full of the smell of cigarette smoke, certainly not the powder fresh scent babies usually carry. I cared for him all night, playing and laughing with possibly the happiest infant I've ever met- incredible for his circumstances. Now, as I write this, I wonder about the beautiful eight-month old, probably in a foster home by now because they try to get them out of the CBH as quickly as possible. This means his three year old sister is likely still there, likely still crying for her mama and making sure someone's taking care of her baby brother. Though it's sad the little one had to stay over night because most babies don't have to, it's even more heartwrenching knowing he's gone but his sister remains at the shelter.

Last night I heard a seven year old tell a staff he'd like to go jump off the building and crack his head open. "Why?," she dared to ask him. "So my sister will be sad. She didn't read me a book. She should be sad if I jump off the roof." Meanwhile, his sister spoke on the phone to their father. She cried about how at least in a foster home you can go outside without taking an adult with you. She's been through this before, I realized, and got chills.

When she finally went in an told her brother good night, I saw that through all the bickering they loved each other like any other siblings.

I sat with the baby for an hour, propping him up on his hands and knees. Finally, just before pajama time, he inched forward twice before tumbling over. I watched in awe as I witnessed what is usually a huge event in a household. A progress that gets written on the calendar and the grandparents get called. Instead, there I was the only audience to this beaming crawler.
I rocked him for another hour as he fell asleep, wondering the whole time when the last time was that someone gave him this much attention and love.

I sat with his sister too, whispering to her that everything would be okay, trying very hard to believe it myself.

One resounding moment remained in my mind even after I left for home. At dinner, I watched as the children put orange slices in their mouths to look like orange-toothed smiles. They giggled and giggled until the bipolar eleven year old birthday boy paused and observed:

"When life gives you oranges, make orange juice."