And what do I do, with that small will? The one that chose none of this chaos, but right now chooses sleep? Do I lay her down, the sleeping child, finally breathing so steadily against my breast? Or do I rip her from peace, throw holy water on the burning body? Maybe gain another hour on the loudly ticking clock of her tiny life? The meds sit heavy on the kitchen bench. Poison that might mean life. Brutality that might mean kindness. I wake her, and she screams.
