Wednesdays are my deep breathing days.

Head resting on the faded blue mat weaning from years of parentless babes’ first crawls, fingers pinching the teal fabric belonging to the nurses-jacket of the woman taking the babes’ temperatures, and little, squirmy, scarred feet wrapped in my hands, his gaze scrutinized my aura. I could feel his eyes deciphering my intentions, my character, my stability. He breathed me in and I let him. I tried with all my being to wordlessly assure him that I all I wanted to do was give him the love he deserves, even if it is only on every Wednesday for four hours, for four months.

I volunteer one day a week at the Pouponniere, an orphanage in the suburb of Dakar called Medina. It is a facility for infants between the ages of newborn and one year old. Abdu, the precious 2 year old I spoke of above is one of the 80-plus infants I spend time with on Wednesdays.

For a reson I have yet to find, Abdu is 2 years old and still staying in the orphanage... he is the oldest little one there. If it was economically possible I would take this two year old parentless child as my own. He is loud, rambunctious, snarky, completely in need of human touch, and devoid of life stability. I wish I could be his protector; however, since I am aware that it is not possible for me to be his or healthy for me to dwell on such matters, I simply give him extra hugs, kisses, and foot rubs when possible. Sometimes he acts like he does not want my hugs and foot-rubs but I know he does because he never moves away from me. There are times when I hug him and he holds his guard, not embracing me back, but he never refuses me. He pretends to not notice the kisses on his forehead until I walk away. The best times are when he gives into the love exuding from my caresses and lunges his tummy across my legs so I can rub his little back, or when I am rubbing one foot and then he sneaks his second little foot into my palm for more gentle baby-squeezes. The hardest times are when he reciprocates my embraces or when he sees a crying baby, walks over to them, and caresses their check before he tosses a toy at them to play with. The hardest times are when I have to stop my kisses and walk away from him standing in his white-metal crib yelling at me in a mixture of baby language and Wolof. I adore him. I adore all of them. The three Awa’s, the bubbly Boubacar, the three Ada’s, the smiley Mohamed, the giggly Amel, and the other babes’ whose names haven’t quite fit into my brain yet.

There is more to tell but for the moment I do not have the words, perhaps next time...