Life doesn't Take itself very Seriously

The cradle where Crispín used to sleep was more than big enough for his tiny little body. Not yet familiar with the light, since he was still to be born, he consigned himself simply to living in the midst of that darkness and, without realizing it, to slowing each step his mother took as she walked through the corridors, down the hallway, and, at times, on a clear morning, out to the pen, where she found comfort riling up the hens by stealing their chicks and hiding two or three just under her bosom, perhaps hoping that life would seem less overwhelming to her son if he heard some of the sounds of the world.

On the other hand, Crispín, despite having been inside there for eight months, had not yet opened his eyes, not even once. And one might have assumed that since he was always curled into a ball that he had not yet tried to stretch out an arm or one of his tiny legs. No, in that regard, he hadn't shown signs of life. And if it hadn't been for his heart that beat ever so softly against the wall that separated him from his mother's eyes, she would have believed that God had deceived her. And if that were the case, nothing would have stopped her from cursing Him, if only just a bit, and even then in secret.