Author: Laura Eppinger

It was such a tiny, tremulous cry. A little robin’s egg beg, a small but bright

“help”

But I heard nothing, or I heard but didn’t hear because by the time I process the itty-bitty

“help me”

Enough to bother wondering where it came from, this precious wee

“please”

I immediately recognize that the situation has already escalated, so

If nothing else, there must have been other signs, and we’d missed them, as it is only just now that we all seem to be looking around, first at each other, and then, eventually, at

Oh such a little lost lamb of a lady,

Everybody’s grandmother (not mine, of course, my grandmother on the white side was an absolute ox, and my abuela was steel and fire and would have, with only a glance, commanded us to save her and be grateful to have had the chance) but the type of…