A question in the morning

I am surrounded by a melee of colors and sweet, synthetic smells as I hang clothes out to dry. The warmth of the day is just beginning to make itself felt and I look forward to the many activities lined up with a mix of anticipation and mild irritation. A conversation with a loved one loops in my head as I turn to get back inside from the balcony. A movement catches the corner of my eye, makes me pause and look around. In the balcony of the house next door, a small boy is sitting on his haunches, his back towards me. From the clothes and the way he was sitting, he is probably the maid's son. Something about his stillness catches my attention. As I keep looking, he turns a little and I can see half his face. Every limb of his body is stationary, as if frozen by a spell. His little hands rest on his knees, his feet are glued to the floor. The unlined lips are half parted as if he is about to say something, but doesn't know what to. The eyes are quiet as well, though not as still as the rest of him. They are looking intently at the pram and toy scooter standing next to him on the balcony; the blues, whites and reds contrasting with the faded pallor of the T-shirt and shorts he is wearing. Several moments pass. There is ambient noise from the road and other apartments, a bead of sweat trickles down my back, a plane roars somewhere overhead and there is a rustle in the curtains of the apartment where he is sitting. He remains still, then suddenly gets up to go over to the other side of the pram. He bends down, I can't see what he's holding. Then he rears up again and comes back to his original place, holding a colorful ball, the kind you give to babies. He sits down again, holding the ball, his limbs back to their stance, his eyes quiet again, looking at the pram and the toy scooter. I turn away finally and go back into the comforting darkness of my bedroom. 

What have we done to have a little boy whose limbs are still and eyes are blank?