Touch

Touch.

The gentlest of caresses.

The plastic thickness of the glove scraps reverentially against the velvet skin of the child, as if this simple gesture could in one moment convey the all devotion of a mothers love.

By the crib she waits, silently waits for that most infantile of cries, a cry for food, for love, for life, but such a cry will never come, the mouth is sealed, stoppered by the tube that feeds in lieu of a breast. Nor is this tube alone, others inundate the infant, giving air, administering medicines, removing waste, so many tubes the child resembles some mechanical progeny, some plugged-in mockery of humanity.

All this to keep the child within the human race, but those closest to it would not argue its inclusion, in fact they beg for it, they plead for it, knowing that each day could be its last, they endure its hateful machines, the grotesque tubing, the plastic prison of its crib – if only for one day, the miracle that may never come - if only for one day.

The doctors cannot tell. A lifetime of education only culminating in the knowledge of their own ignorance. The best of human endeavours now, as always, reliant on divine will, but perhaps here there is a willingness to bow to it. This room has seen more prayers then all others combined.

The clock ticks on. Each second both a blessing and a curse. Each breath a second older, a second closer to death, but will a life, a real life grow in between?
The mother prays. The nurses check.

Waiting for the first sign.

Or for the last.