Her lips move quickly—with fervour—she mutters prayers which fly up into the ether.
The little girl, all of five years old, who knows she must be still and quiet, shivers inside her coat.
She is cold, always cold.
She is told, always told
how bad she is, that she’ll never amount to anything, her eyes are the colour of sin, it is a shame that she exists.
She trembles, afraid, a tight feeling in her chest – here, in this holy place, can God see-and punish her for-her wickedness?
She readies herself for a possible lightening bolt should God decide to strike, but even in her fear she is careful, always careful
not to make a sound, not to remind the woman she is here at all. God scares her, but her mother inspires terror.
She is a pathetic little bird, with no safe nest.
She is her mother’s cross to bear, a fact she is never allowed to forget.
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