Heal

The crack of the gatorade cap: orange ribs give way beneath a palm, and dry lips seek out purple water. Empty stomachs groan and scream, salty tears rub against scarlet eyes-- internally and externally crushed. "I wish I could help you," the little boy's voice is small. "I want to take away your sickness." It stings to speak but, "Thanks, little brother." Twenty-four hours shifts to two weeks shifts to a month. More. Temporary gives way to permanent. Eventually hope becomes a burden; yearning for health exhausts a body, too weak to stand. Mouths no longer open to answer the perennial question: "Are you okay?" But she'll still open her eyes for the little boy holding her hand whispering "You'll be okay, big sister." Even when she doesn't believe him.