Peace

“Don’t go,” she sobs, the plea choking its way out of her throat. She tastes the salt of her own tears, sees the cherubic child in her arms through a lens of liquid despair.

“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go…”

It is all she can say. It is all she can think. Her fingers tangle in his baby-soft hair; fine like silk, golden like sunshine.

“Don’t go, don’t go…”

Over and over again, she murmurs the words like a desperate prayer. But no one is listening. Not God, not his angels…and certainly not her son.

“Don’t go…”

But he is already gone.

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