Burqa Baby

The woman sitting near me is a mother. I know because she is carrying a child with beautiful dark eyes. The eyes are all I can see.

Burqa baby


Tiny hands wrap around mother’s waist. Tiny toes spread as far as they can, brushing against each other in their suspension.

This gaze somehow haunts me. Burqa baby’s eyes don’t return my smile and her hands do not return my wave. I am the other. This mother is engrossed in her doings: screen, journal, computer. She doesn’t see me staring – or even snapping a photo. I hesitate and then, secretly, I reach over to touch these tiny pink toes. Just to offer a moment of touch.

Are we so engaged in our media, entranced by it’s siren song, that we carry our children like packages on our backs? Do we know we are denying them interaction with their world while we enjoy artificial interaction in our own?



About wlebolt

Life comes at you fast. I like to catch it and toss it back. Or toss it up to see where it lands. I do my best thinking when I'm moving. And my best writing when I am tapping my foot to a beat no one else hears. Kinesthetic to the core.

Posted on July 21, 2014, in Body, Deeper Sensation, Life and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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