Lullaby

Javier's onsie has a two small holes in it: one under the armpit, and one around his ankle, where the 'footie' meets the leg. It's second-hand, and stained in a few places, but it's clean and freshly pressed. He's been dressed with love, which can never be shabby.

I press my nose against his baby-sweet neck. Scents of soap, warmth and a mother's perfume are nestled there. I cajole and cuddle him, and his face lights with a silly, toothless grin at the tickling sensation of being smothered in kisses.

His small head teeters on a wobbly neck, straining to investigate the world of the ceiling above him. Eyes rest and focus on a rainbow-colored kite suspended from sagging tiles. In a gentle voice I tell him of light and prisms, color and sunshine. He listens, gnawing thoughtfully on a dump truck as I speak.

We spend the hour similarly engaged, while a dozen other children shout and sing, laugh and give chase around the toy room. Javier stands, tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and bounces with enthusiasm. I point out that he is quite a big boy now, and soon will join the teeming mob. Childhood will soon be upon him, complete with all the mysteries and whimsy that are his right.

A whistle blows, and my shift is over. His mother, young but so loving, is waiting at the door. With pride and affection she cradles him, and he joyfully buries his small face in her breast. Softly, and as rhythmic as the shuffle of her slippered feet against the linoleum, she hums a Spanish lullaby. Her music creates an acoustic veil between Javier and the din of the homeless shelter and, lulled as if by incantation, he becomes unconscious of the turmoil surrounding him, feeling only that he is safe and loved.