When Nothing is Pure

I met a little girl today.

She couldn't have been older than four, maybe five, years old. Her name was Alina, she said, firmly shaking my hand and speaking with confidence. Her eyes gave her away. She told us her mommy was sick, and that we needed to come in to speak with her. I called through the door, horrified of what I might find. An innocent child left to answer the door for stranger's calls. A weak response tapered off from around the corner.

Inside, Alina's mother was wrapped in blankets and tucked into a black leather couch. She shook with tremors so violently that she was unable to stand. I ripped her bag open and illegally administered her medication. Within minutes the tremors had subsided significantly. Alina's mother was able to explain that she had accidentally wasted a few doses the night before, which had left her with nothing to medicate with this morning.

As I turned to leave, Alina walked up to me and hugged my legs as tightly as her little arms could manage.

She said, "Thank you for making my Mommy feel better."

Thank you, Alina.



Poetry by Phill
Read 568 times
Written on 2018-04-27 at 19:11

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This is so sad, in all of its implications. So well told.
Ashe
2018-04-27