Temporary Transmissions

Day 10

There is a child standing in the doorway. A child with hair so blond, it looks almost white. His cheeks are pale, and his lashes are pale. His eyes are a kind of blue mixed with grey and his lips are that kind of red that only very young children have. 

I look at the child and the child looks at me. 

There is no one on the street except for this child, on my doorstep with his thumb stuck into his mouth and a snuggle thing curled up in his arm. 

I wonder if the child strayed away from some house in the neighbourhood. If I were this child's mother, I would be frantic with worry. I would be running up and down the streets, looking for this child with his pale eyes and his pale skin. 

You shouldn't be alone, I say to the child. Where's your mother? 

The child doesn't say a word. He simply sucks at his thumb and stares at me. 

I stand there, wondering what to do. I think of the child's mother, discovering that the child has vanished from the usual play place. I think of the mother's growing anguish, of the anguish rising into despair as she races through her house, calling the child's name. I think of the child's mother, rushing out of the house, running up and down the back alleys, calling out the child's name. 

What's your name? I ask. 

Still nothing. 

The keys to the house are in my pocket. The duende is somewhere, fast asleep. Leaving the house is a simple decision. 

Come, I say to the child. Let's go. Let's look for your Mom. 

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What's the best way to go about searching for a lost child's mother? I wonder if I should take his hand--but before I can ask if he wants that, he's already reached out and taken hold of mine. 

Let's go then, I say to him. 

He takes his thumb out of his mouth, and offers me a big smile. 

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