There are no true words for the sudden swirl of ancestors around the crib of a child with a broken heart on the eve of its mending. Cocooned in pink and accustomed to tubes, tape and the touch of strangers, she sleeps. We dream. Abuela searches her daughter’s eyes for forgiveness, and Angie searches mine for God. No, there are no true words. There is only the great swell of tears and hope that crash upon the shore of our fear, whispering la niña es muy fuerte, si, ella es muy fuerte.
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