My baby and I have a lot in common. Her dark curly hair , her deep brown eyes, her blank face. she’s only six, I notice the different teeth she places below her pillow in hopes of the tooth fairy giving her gifts in return. They often warn me…the nanny’s, the teachers, even the kids riding tricycles instead of bicycles warn me.

But who are they to warn me?

What do they know about my baby ? Have they heard the crooked words she speaks through her crooked teeth. Do they know her arms are scrapped with cuts and bruises from the feral pets she keeps. I watch her wander in the garden during the night- dig, bury, dig. When she returns, I leave her be. I do not fuss, worry, or scold her like most mothers would. I stare at her mud covered arms and move down to her fingernails noting the clumps of soil and dried patches of red lay buried beneath the plates of her nails.

She stares at me slowly blinking her cold brown eyes and I stare back unfazed . Suddenly she flashes me one of her crooked smiles, showcasing all her missing teeth. I ask her if she finished her homework, she giggles, her cracked,crooked, laugh. I sigh and unlike most mothers, I leave her be. I instruct her to shower and to get ready for bed. She runs upstairs giggling her steps vibrating through the wooden floor. The room that’s no longer buzzing with her energy falls in to empty silence. Before I can even form a thought my legs begin leading me to the back door.

I step into the garden, the moons shape partially covered by heavy gray clouds. A pungent and sweet odor strikes my nose, weighing heavy on the air. My gaze falls to the ground below my feet meeting the twisted and mangled roses growing from the dirt .

Tears flood my eyes in shock and realization. My breath quickening and the corners of my mouth rising uncontrollably in an obscene smile. I take in the intoxicating scent of miasma , my mouth watering from the sweet breath of rot in the garden.

My baby and I have a lot in common.