“A child dead-born is still a child.” I read that in a book somewhere. I forgot the book’s title. It was something I scavenged from a box of books and do-hickeys someone had left on the front of a house on my block. Scribbled on the box in permanent black marker was one word: FREE.
I recall loving the author’s descriptive narrative and poetic prose. The book takes place in a metropolis of steel and iron, and yet the author adds color and life to the setting with their pen. It’s a thick book and I carried it with me every day; I flipped through it and read from a random page whenever I had a respite from busyness. I had that book with me everywhere I went, even after I misplaced it and never held it again.