Later Her days are a mix of poverty and apprehension. It’s late and she’s bone weary. She’s on her knees, next to the crib, praying. “Please, please make my baby better. Please let me help her. I’ll be a better person, just please make my little girl healthy.”
Too Late She’s steadfast in her duty as a mother. Money doesn’t matter because there is no cure. The baby is so weak. She lifts her carefully out of the crib and takes her to the bed. Tears pool in her brown eyes as she leans back against the headboard and sings softly until the last breath escapes the tiny body.