The child’s purple, fit to burst, he’s swollen, leaking urine, every time he laughs he farts.  And he laughs non-stop: the room is swarmed with squealing aunts, snaggle-toothed and tangled, done-up, worn-out, a little sauced, they all hold hands and dance, fall down, get up, swing around again.  The aunties joke and laugh and try to throw the monstrous berry in the air.  His diaper sags, his hands are swollen, he will never make a fist.  It tickles him to see them shout and fight, to hear them loop their questions out and back, at least for now, at least ‘til he goes deaf, then blind, and then his liver fails, and then his kidneys, and sometime after that he sputters out and dies.  The aunties hold their breath and puff their cheeks, their heads turn shades of bruise, they press together in a bunch.  Somewhere there’s a father and it’s not his fault, a tattoo right between his eyes, money elegant upon his hand.  The kid might live to thirty, which is not too bad, the father says, shopping for a car.  The tires squeal and fart some more.  It could have all been different: the carberry could have not been born a bear, a cabinet, a short squat lump of laughing coal, but it wasn’t different, it was this thing-y life, and all this fading noise, and him inside.  It’s just a baby! someone squeals, but for now it’s just a mountain with one squint eye, and two more aunties come like hikers, to entertain it with their picks and ropes: one is thin and missing teeth and swaying, and the other’s shoes popped off her swollen feet.  And then another auntie by the door, twists her hair around her finger, humming Oh la… le pauvre!, then breathless, then up against the wall and fast asleep, mouth open, snoring blankly.  Then one last auntie crawling on the floor, the mountain on her back, wheezing like a horse, hoofing off to find the lord.  The mountain winks and slaps its thigh.  Life is grand, he seems to say, even if I’m always thirsty.