A Mother's Prayer

The boy is dying.   Anyone could see it.  His skin yellow, his eyes sunken, his hands cold as ice.

The air in the room is stale, save the overwhelming scent of rubbing alcohol which occasionally wafts through the air.  The lime green paint on the walls had faded, covered over by layers of dirt and grime.  Cockroaches run free in the room, like antelope in the Serengeti, seemingly unaffected by the frequent foot traffic of doctors and nurses.  The listless body of a young boy lies on a stiff hospital bed as a tangled web of intravenous lines knots its way up to a glass container of medicine.  It is his only hope.  Fever had set in, and the violent quakes which often accompany it had jarred the shell of the once vibrant child.

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