All night she hugged her baby. Then at 2 a.m., during the early morning the baby stopped crying. Then it stared at the sun as the sun came over. The mother knew the baby died. All her efforts during the night in loving the bare body of her son against her own bare body in hopes of taking the disease was a futile attempt to keep her son alive. But it was all that she knew at this point and time. All day she sat with her baby and she knew that evening would come. She would have to dig a small graveyard for her son and she started. By early morning before daybreak she continued digging. When it was three to four feet deep she rewrapped her son and her baby board and placed the baby into the grave. She started covering her baby until only the face showed. She was tired and she was weak. As the sun came over the mountains she sang her baby’s death song. She sang and she noticed she was getting weaker but maybe she thought ‘I should have brought more lunch stuff, more food to eat.’ As she covered the babies face for the last time she would have reserved her son’s face. As she covered his face she felt a tug on her right shoulder and she turned to see.

“Mom. Mom.”

“What? What?”

“I had a vision you wanted to see me. So I came looking for you. Mom I just buried my son. He had smallpox. Don’t touch me mom. You might get it, too.”

“But you have not seen yourself, have you?”