The Baby


The afternoon sunlight glints off his tiny head, turns the spiky hairs there silver. What does he see out there? Out on the tarmac? What does he make of all that activity – centipidious baggage carts, taxiing planes and the occasional fire truck with lights all ablaze?


His mother pushes his hand against the window; taps it. Is this his first exposure to transparency?

Still silence.

Suddenly, digits move. A purple hippo raps the window. Slowly, then “rap-tap-tap” with increasing rapidity. He has learned what a window is.

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