As I made the important decision this morning between Frosted Mini-wheats and egg and toast, you sobbed quietly in your hospital bed. Your tiny wisp of a child died in the night—born early. Your arms were empty.
While I perused the early morning aisles comparing prices, checking off my list, mentally mapping out the week’s menu, you hid in the rocks and bushes from rebel troops. Desperate mother hands tried to shush little mouths as men with guns threw your meager treasures about.
At lunch, I fixed my special fresh vegetable salad and diet soda, intent on being faithful to my weight-loss plan. You sifted through the dumpster in the alley for that one morsel that might relieve the silent gnawing—even for a moment.
I filled up with regular unleaded at 2:00, complaining all the while at the ridiculously high price of gasoline. I thought about writing a letter to the…
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