to be born and reborn

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She carefully lifts her firstborn, her spindly arms awkwardly crooked under a heavy bundle of warmth. She trembles under the weight, glancing at the pinched eyes, crinkled nose, tight pout. But his hand is there, under hers, under the baby’s, and suddenly it’s autumn and she’s in a pile of fallen brown leaves, nestled there like how her baby is nestled in her arms.
Everything is going to be okay. 
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