Before you felt her hands

A story about defunding PEPFAR

Your mom always said you didn’t cry when you were born. She’d say it with a smile. You were 6 pounds and you fit in your dad’s palm, but he held you with both hands. Because you were soft. Your mom’s hands were your favourite. They were always moving. Wrapping, washing, lifting, and sometimes, her fingers in reach, just for you to grab. You never got to keep them for long.

Your sister died at two years old. They said it was the fever. That’s what everyone called it—except your grandma, who called it the curse. You’ve never heard the sound of your sister’s name, no one says it. You don’t know if she also fit in your dad’s palm. If he held her with both hands.

When you were six months old, you stopped breastfeeding like before. You’d twist your little face away, crying. Your belly hurt. Your mouth was white. You felt hot. Then cold. Then both at once.

This time, they took you to a clinic. Your mom thought it smelled of plastic and bleach. You cried when they pricked you. They told your mom that she had HIV. Weeks later, they told her, “the baby has it too.” Your blood and hers were once the same. Back when you were smaller than a palm. Back when you hadn’t yet felt her hands.

They gave your mom a syrup, a dropper, a folded instruction paper. She hid it in a drawer, where your grandma couldn’t find it. Your dad didn’t hold you as often anymore. When he did, it was at arm’s length. His face blank.

The syrup tasted sharp, like metal and strawberries.

For a while, you got better. You lifted your head. You laughed. You reached out. Your grandma started using your nickname again.

Then suddenly, some days, there was no bitterness at all.

Your mom and dad spoke in whispers. Your grandma prayed louder.

Your mom waited at the clinic. “Come back in two weeks,” they said. Their voices were flat.

So she walked two hours to the district hospital, with you strapped to her back. Your belly hurt, but you liked the way you softly bobbed against her. You liked her warmth and the little vibration of her back as her songs floated to you.

There was a sign:
Antiretroviral therapy services temporarily suspended.

As you were carried home, there were no fingers gently tickling your feet. The humming was gone.

One day, you might have a sibling. Your mom isn’t sure if they’ll know your name.