Sounds of Waiting
By Christina Mohs

Twelve hours away, it is a new day. A child wakes up slowly, drifting towards consciousness in the grey light as a truck outside shifts its gears and honks its horn in the thick, still air. The windows are open, and already an unbroken line of children's clothing dries over the sixth floor balcony ledge around the courtyard.
The baby reaches for the metal rungs of the crib to pull herself to her knees. The bamboo mat on which she sleeps slips and scratches against the plywood bottom of the crib. From this new position, her dark brown eyes scan the room with its peeling paint and dingy white walls. In a few hours, the babies will wander the playroom in misshapen and dented walkers, now and then jostling into each other like bumper cars, plastic wheels clattering on the floor. Some of the babies will sit still and sway from their walker seats to the tinny music from the small radio atop the counter.
But it is now still early and not all of the caretakers have arrived. A baby two rows over is crying. The sandals of one of the aunties smack on the tile floor of the hall as she approaches the room.
"Bee-eh ku, bao bao." Don't cry, baby. There are 47 babies in this room. One wail could wake them all. The auntie swiftly leaves the crib room with the fussy one. Her footfalls echo, slap-slap, slap-slap, down the hall to the feeding room.
The child lies down again. Her head has become flattened in the back from the hard surface of the crib bottom. Above her, a moth performs aerobatics in wide sweeping circles. She points a small finger at it before it flies away. The baby bends her knees, pushes her bottom off the mat, kicks both her legs straight, and allows her backside to thump back down again. She does this often. Thud. Thud. It will soothe her while she waits. Thud.