Bystander (September 3, 2009)

Today, I saw a kid die in the arms of his mother. He was a toddler, perhaps two years and ten months old tops. He had a head shaped like a tomato, with much of his baby fat still intact in his cheeks, and pitch black straight hair sprouting from the pinpoint center of his scalp. He wore a royal blue shirt with a round, yellow collar. He seemed healthy as his meaty arms would tell that he was not, at all, malnourished. His skin was faintly brown, Filipino kayumanggi, as most would probably coin. He sported light khaki shorts, trimmed just below his small knee caps, and multi-colored rubber shoes right below it. Had I seen him standing up, I’d immediately think he was the playful type. He was cute, the way kids have always been cute, but he looked a little more lovable than average.

He seemed asleep in his dark blue stroller, with its shade pulled down, and his feet propped out of it, relaxed.  Out of view from his aunt pushing the stroller from behind, nobody knew how he was doing underneath the shade of his stroller. He was dying.

It was too late when he was found lifeless by his mother. Coming from a different direction, his mother saw how he has passed from brown to a beaten up color. She rushed and knelt down in front of the stroller, starting to call out with a name. His name, perhaps.

His skin grew spots of black in his cheeks, in his arms, and in his legs. His lips had a thick froth of yellowish saliva. His eyes were less than half lit. He was motionless. And upon feeling his chest, his mother knew, he wasn’t breathing.

His mom and his aunt kept screaming, calling him out a dozen times with a piercing pitch and loudness, patting him on his chest, on his cheeks, on his arms, everywhere. She grabbed him out of the stroller, in panic, throwing the baby carriage off to the ground, upside down. Like a ragdoll, she slung the kid onto her arms, dummy motion, making no response.

Her eyes bent to a frown as her face curled into wrinkles. Her teeth bared as her siren yelled emergency. Sweat built up in less than a count. She ran with great urgency as she carried her son shoulder-level to her body. Help was what she wanted. Something to save her son. Here she was, his distressed mother.

Everyone was startled. I didn’t know where to go or whom to ask for help or where I can come to play a part. I didn’t have a car, I didn’t have a working phone to make a call, I’m not familiar with anyone in the situation, I did not know what to do! A security guard came by and radioed for help. They ran. Everyone ran. I felt that I did run. I needed to run. Maybe, I ran in place. And after running, the scene disappeared faster than it had appeared.

Only his upside down stroller remained as a reminder of what happened. Only its wheels were moving, rolling against thin air. Perhaps, it was the only witness in the boy’s death, since nobody was ever sure how he was doing except the carriage’s linen upon which he rested on.

Perhaps, he survived and everyone bore witness on how he was saved.

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