New Word

Candice’s father is a retired minister and my next-door neighbour. He sits with my baby girl on his lap, while I hand Candice the diaper bag with Ally’s bottles. She has just started to talk. She can say, ‘Mama’, ‘juicy’ and ‘more’.

The old man interlaces his fingers in front of Ally and says, “Here is the church, here is the steeple…” Ally watches fascinated.

Candice was one of my first year Education students last year. When I was 19, the age she is now, she played hopscotch on the pavement in front of my house. This year, she didn’t return to campus. She stays home to look after her father.

“Open the doors and there are the people!” Ally laughs when he wiggles his fingers. He repeats the rhyme again and again.

Ally sticks her finger into the growth on Candice’s father’s head. He winces, pulls away. It used to be a mole the size of a little pea. Then it became an acorn. Now it has a dimpled scab, like a chocolate golf ball. Every time it is cut away, it grows back bigger. Candice says it’s growing inwards now. He can’t see properly any more. His balance isn’t good. Ally reaches for the growth again.

“Dirty,” she says. It is a new word.

I blush. Candice looks away. The old man laughs, takes Ally’s chubby hands in his and interlaces them, “Here is the church…”

I know he wants me to baptise her. Soon.