Breathe, Azura, please

breathe, I wanted to whisper

as I clutched her hand. The

wheelchair rolled down

the halls of the hospital.

The stench tickled my nose:

sadness and death.

She was panting as mother

guided her through the

steps.

"Concentrate on your breathing,

love," she whispered as she brushed

away the tangled hair of Azura.

"Keep breathing!"

The doctor led us to the

room filled with nurses as

they prepared Azura for

childbirth. Mom watched through

the glass as she crossed her

fingers and closed her eyes, whispering

words of hope.

Please, Azura, hang in there.