A sleeping child cries out, laying on the bed by her side. She stops singing and attends to the wilting skinny child. She tries to calm the child, but the child won't calm.
Her breasts are dry, if they could just bring out blood in place of nothing, she would feed the child her blood. The child keeps up the screaming, she tries cuddling him and putting the milkless breast in its mouth. The noise seizes and its like the true meaning of peace. But when the child sucks and comes across nothing, he removes the bridle from the mouth of the horse, the perfect combination for chaos, like the infants soul inquires of his maker why he was born into this world.
She can't stop his screaming, so must bear it.
The child only knows 'mummy', 'daddy', maybe he would learn when he is five years old or more. No one, no home. Faith is the only hope.
I walk past them. There is nothing I can do for the mother nor the child. I have barely walked 8, 9, but they didn't let me take the 10th step. The childs cry is ended abruptly in the middle of one of his long strays. I turn round, tears run down the face of the woman, and the childs head falls to the back, with no effort of retrieving it. The hands dangle as the woman lays the naked body on the bed and covers it with its cloth. It has been forced out of its misery, back to its maker or somewhere close, just not any where here.
She will later dump the body in the bin closest to the altar just so she would not feel the pain alone, mocking those that are in want of the fruit of the womb. God gave her without her consent and without her wanting one. Now she must go about her needs without constrain.
The woman accepted her fate. The child should have been told before coming that there is only one place where rest exists and it is in the grave. Now the dead child lies there peacefully, probably the best its ever had and would ever.
0 comments:
Post a Comment