Justice, Justice Thou Shalt Pursue

     "Momma, Momma, I didn’t mean it, Momma. I don’t know..."
     My girl stands there, holding a rag doll, a muddy rag doll that used to be my light, my angel, my joyful noise in the morning, in her hands.
     "Momma, I think I broke it. Can you fix it, Momma? Can you? You fix everything, Momma. Can you? Please?"
     I stare at the flat eyes, greyed skin, fingerless nails. I, who rewired lamps, cleared elbows, soldered cracked engine blocks, I, who fix just about anything, I knew I couldn’t fix this. No one could fix this, not even God. No one.
     I shake my head.
     "Momma, please, Momma. Can’t you try? I don’t know who else to ask, Momma."
     I shake my head again, so cold except for the urine I realized was streaming down my leg.
     "Momma, help me. You can, you have to, Momma."
     The uneven plaster on the wall snags my shirt and keeps me upright while I shake my head. I watch the spinning colors behind my eyelids. I cannot look at what is in front of me.
     "Momma, if you can’t fix it, can you make it go away? Momma?"
     I swallow and nod yes.