A dusty book lay on the table, waiting to tell stories of mysterious lands that were far away from a reality. It was time for her to escort her child to the gateway of sleep leading to a safe shelter of dreams. A story or two shall be narrated feeding an innocent curiosity with hope that opposes a cruel world. Every night this routine was her way to shower her love over her child.
She lit the candles inside the tinted glass lamp and headed towards her child. The winds were blowing hard as shielded the candle flames.
“Where are you, my little one? Mommy’s here” her heart called out. Finally she was there, smiling to the childishly gibberish sounds that she heard.
A story was narrated, after which she could no longer hear her child’s incomprehensible tattling.
“Goodnight you” she whispered. She bent down inside the cradle and kissed the child’s face. Like always her dream ended right about now as it wasn’t a face but a stone and there was no cradle but a grave.
She picked up the book, the lamp and tip toed her way away. She was trying not to let her sobs be too loud, because she somehow believed that her child was sleeping, someplace else.
Tomorrow she’ll be here again, to narrate another story to her little one, because a mother’s heart can never let go off her little one. It’s a love that is beyond the cycle of life and death, something that lives on even if a life happens to end.
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