It's not his fault.

Outside, a rooster crows at the top of his lungs, signaling he is the first to wake. The hens lift their necks out of their bosoms and ruffle their auburn feathers, carefully, making sure not to arouse their sleeping children. A calf wobbles onto its scrawny legs, ready for his morning meal. Flies and gnats buzz above a rotting carcass of a young goat. Inside, a clammy hand rings cool water out of a rag, and then presses it firmly onto his pale face. His eight year old body shakes with each thrusting throat convulsion, while his mother holds him close to her chest, her clammy hand resting gently on his wet scalp. She gazes down upon his face, studying each of his once stout features. His once attentive coffee brown eyes, are now merely ajar, fogged and glazed over, their color resembling that of dead grass. His once full head of curly jet black hair has recently been hacked off, leaving behind only a few pieces of fuzzy grey strands. Dried blood outlines a rugged wound resting on his left cheek bone. His pursed lips are cracked and the sides of his mouth sliced open, full of crusty white residue. His limbs remain motionless. The only sign of any life is his chest, rising every few seconds as his hearts works alone, keeping him alive.

A lonely tear rolls off her face and lands on his left cheek bone, diffusing itself into the stale wound. Old memories jog her mind. She wishes she could provide him with the medicines he needs, but ever since his father died, she’s had no way of making money. They’ve had to live solely off of the animals and a diminishing garden under the house, but they make a pretty good team so everything’s worked out, until now. She remembers one day last spring, when everything was fine, when he was healthy. They had just been given a new baby chick and he loved that chick with all he had. One night after coming back from town, she couldn’t find him anywhere. She called his name for an hour, but got no answer. Finally he appeared, his hands cupped against his chest. He had tears pouring down his face and his bottom lip was quivering. He extended his hands up to her and parted his jarred fingers. A lifeless baby chick lay in the middle of his palm. She took his hands into her own and they said a prayer there in the middle of the road, his squeaky voice cracking every other devoted word. What she would give to see his face so vibrant again...

As he lies there, so helpless, so shriveled and so weak, her heart rages with animosity. She paces the room, unattainable vengeance storming her mind, sending surges of remorse through each nerve in her body. She hates herself for everything. She wishes she was the one suffering. She wishes she was the one lying helpless on the floor, her heart working alone to keep her alive. There is nothing she can do now. It is her fault. From the very beginning, he’s had no choice in anything. He’s never had a choice in the suffering. He’s never had a choice in the poverty. He never had a choice in being born with HIV. Since his very first breath, he has had to fight to stay alive every day, and now it was close to his last day of the fight, and he was going to lose.

Outside, the chickens scurry under the house and huddle up close to one another, the hens tucking their peeping children close under their beige breasts. A hefty mother cow bellows at her young calf and he trots over to her; they amble their way back towards the house side by side. The dirt road is quiet as the day comes to an end. Inside, a clammy hand strokes the side of a chalky white cheek. A pair of murky eyes dart open. A young, helpless body shutters with its last breath. Five tiny, fragile fingers grip the clammy hand, and then go completely limp. For him, the day is over, forever. (695)