Choosing life

insidetheclock

She watches shadows play on his tiny, chubby cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as the wind breathes out through the window. His left eye is more closed than his right. It remains open just a bit; a general malfunction, a mild distortion that he would grow out of. For now she has the salt-water drops the doctor had given her, so that she could keep her baby’s eye from drying out — three drops every hour, on the hour, never forget.

His small, pearl-like toes twitch inside his oversized woolly socks as something resembling a yawn flees his pink lips, his brows crunched together as though sensing the pillow floating above his head.

She hesitates.

Her hands are sweaty as she grips the sides of the pillow tighter, inching toward the perfect little face.

He opens his eyes, one still slightly closed but the other wide open, inspecting, scanning the…

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