Unformatted text preview: grating, but it didn't engulf her. She tore open the plastic top of the big bottle and began to drink and drink. Ah, good milk. Not Mother's milk, but it was milk. Not fresh and warm. But it was good. If only there had been more milk in Mother. She was so hungry for Mother. So hungry to lie in Mother's arms and drink. This feeling became worse instead of better. When she thought of Mother she wanted to cry. But she had taken every drop she could get from Mother, and it had been enough. She had grown tall, and only left Mother when she knew she had to. LASHER Pray the brown people had found Mother and taken Mother to a proper grave. Pray they had sung and dropped the red ocher and the flowers. Mother would never wake again. Mother would never speak. There wouldn't be any more milk ever in Mother. Mother had made every drop that she would ever make. Was Mother dead? She ought to go to Michael, tell Michael what Mother said. A feeling of love and tenderness came over her when she thought of Michael, and Mother's love for him. Then go on to Don- nelaith. What if Father was waiting there for her now? On and on...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10