The room was thick with the smell of fever. Smoke rose, as did the temperature. Sweat, fighting to gain the odor presence. Such was the air which she breathed for the first time. Her welcome into the world was not garlands of flowers, but beads of sickly smelling feverish sweat. Her farewell ? Was it more plush ? Who are we to say ?
When a stillborn is born, the mother knows something is amiss. But I guess it does not happen the other way round. Hence the conclusion, that she was crying out of hunger rather than out of grief.
There was no one nearby who was crying. Except her of-course. Grief, of the continuous and harsh kind, usually rends a human into stone. How then, did she learn how to cry ? Was it an instinctive reaction to the death of the one who just gave her life ? Was it a continuation of emotion ? That the mother and her body was already crying in pain, extrapolated to the baby born out of her, inheriting the same frame of mind ?
Even you were ones a baby.
When a stillborn is born, the mother knows something is amiss. But I guess it does not happen the other way round. Hence the conclusion, that she was crying out of hunger rather than out of grief.
There was no one nearby who was crying. Except her of-course. Grief, of the continuous and harsh kind, usually rends a human into stone. How then, did she learn how to cry ? Was it an instinctive reaction to the death of the one who just gave her life ? Was it a continuation of emotion ? That the mother and her body was already crying in pain, extrapolated to the baby born out of her, inheriting the same frame of mind ?
Even you were ones a baby.
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