She held him to herself and cooed, as his shrilling voice rent the air, beads of perspiration running down her face.
And I watched them -mother and baby- as she got worked up with the singing and fretting and patting. To a random stranger it seemed quite frustrating; a burdensome cross perhaps. But in these scenarios, I always remembered. I always recalled; when Dayna Mager retold the missionary’s tale…. of the orphaned babies.
“Why are they silent? Why don’t they cry?”
The missionary had inquired.
The orphanage nurse sighed. “After about a week of them being here, and crying out for countless hours, they eventually stop when they realize no one is coming for them.”
So for a lifetime
they learnt to bottle their cries, with blank silent stares that hid many
tales. And perhaps their smiles and hearts and dreams and hopes. I learnt what
a gift it was to cry and be consoled.
Once upon a time all babies cried; some eventually learnt not to. And the crying or lack of it somehow shaped their futures. I watched with high hopes as this mother calmed her crying baby…
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