The Wicker Basket
The pyre burned before a sparse crowd. On a humid afternoon, the dead kept coming—hurled onto the
fire like sacks of wet rice. Volunteers worked through the brutal heat and stench without a break.
A thin boy waited at the edge of the pyre ground, standing as tall as he could manage. The tattered wicker
basket slung tight across his back, it held a still figure smaller than he was. The baby’s head lay against
his trembling shoulder.
Before long, a volunteer noticed the boy through the ash. Their eyes met. He walked over. The boy's grip
tightened. The man stopped and stared—and waited. One by one, the boy's fingers loosened from the
strap.
The man lifted the baby from the basket, unusually limp. He carried it down to the pyre. The boy
watched. The man gently threw it into the fire.
The sun fell. The flames faded to embers. The boy remained when most had left.
A faint light caught the boy's eye. He turned and saw a silhouette in a charred window—a parent tossing a
baby into the air and catching it.
He turned back to the ash, watching the remaining smoke drift toward the mountains.
Then he left.