Black Wing Dragging Across the Sand
Photo by Cassiano Psomas / Unsplash — Clarice Lispector, The Smallest Woman in the World
The next to be born was quite small, about the size of a sweet potato. The midwife said nothing to the mother at first but, upon leaving the room, warned her that the girl might not survive. No one seemed particularly concerned; after all, if she lived, it would be one more mouth to feed.
Later, looking her over more carefully in the morning sun, the mother, too, suspected that the girl wasn’t going to thrive. The lion’s share of milk from her shriveled breasts should therefore go to the boy, born first and almost twice the size of the girl. She didn’t have the courage to tell her mother-in-law or her husband, but she sensed that her left breast was making more milk than her right, so she positioned the babies in such a way that they’d nurse on the breast destined for each. Whenever the boy grew restless and cried out, alerting his mother that his source of sustenance had dried up, she’d place the girl off to the side, then offer her other shriveled breast to satisfy the boy’s hunger. The girl protested with minimal gestures, but who’d worry if she was hungry, with her fate fastened to a tiny, fragile body?
Deprived of so much, the shrunken girl resisted. She stayed alive, but in a permanent state of illness.
Fátima’s application for retirement benefits was still under review — that’s what the woman explained to her
