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One evening she cupped her mother’s tears tightly. She repeatedly pressed her palms together releasing small suction sounds. Her mother’s cupped tears spurted from their enclave to her wrists, she was carrying a handful. Her eyes glazed as they travelled and she softly whispered; “You will be happy mama.”

The next morning her mother woke with an empty cup, a biblical scripture detailed along its rim, by her bedside. Her daughter raised her palms. “Look,” she beamed. “No tears!”

Her mother cradled her in the bed, and quietly she placed the cup under her mother’s weeping eyes for today’s collection.