Passages by Rebecca Jung
My mother pressed her cheek to Leslie’s cold face and cried. She rocked back and forth, holding my sister’s limp body close to hers. And those Congolese women rocked and cried with her. They stroked Leslie’s face and body. They touched my mother, laying their hands on her in a mothers’ blessing. They bent their long necks, like black swans, and touched their heads to hers. Even at eight, I knew the beauty of this and that I’d write about it someday.
Author Rebecca Jung and Artist Ciro Flores