By Noor Ahmed
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Miya looked into the emptiness of the forest near her
apartment, in which she sat. Silence stared back, and she blinked and turned
away. With a sigh, she laid down, spreading her bare legs out, half of her body
on the mat and the other half on the wet grass. The clouds above her were deep
gray, almost menacing.
She was tired of the clouds and the trees, all of which
seemed to hover, threatening her child, her baby. She turned to the side, to
her 2-month-old daughter, Naya. Naya was a happy girl. She had round, brown
eyes, just like her mother. She never complained or gave her mother a hard time
fussing or babbling. She was always quiet, with a soft smile on her face.
She looked at Naya. Her eyes were closed, her face still.
Miya picked up her baby, sat up, and held her close. She stroked her soft hair,
rocking back and forth on the plastic mat. Naya leaned into her warm mother,
her weight slight, barely noticeable.
As Miya patted her back, she felt Naya’s body, rough and
heavy, but she didn’t mind. Naya had been that way for a few days, but the
mortician told Miya that she would be alright.
About the Author
Noor Ahmed is a reader and writer in her first semester at ICC. She hopes to transfer to UIUC and double major in English and Creative Writing. She spends most of her free time frustrated with her penmanship. She loves her cat, Sunny, who always jumps off her lap while she writes her in-progress books.