“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.
But he is already gone.