No Madonna and Child could touch that picture of a mother's tenderness for a son she soon will have to forget.
The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea of unwashed children with washed-out ribs and dried-up bottoms struggling in labored steps behind blown empty bellies.
Most mothers there had long ceased to care but not this one; she held a ghost smile between her teeth and in her eyes the ghost of a mother's pride as she combed the rust-colored hair left on his skull and then - singing in her eyes - began carefully to part it... In another life this would have been a little daily act of no consequence before his breakfast and school; now she did it like putting flowers on a tiny grave.
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