Third Time Falling Down: Poor Newborn Monkey Baby Passed Away
The jungle was alive with sound—the rustling of leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the occasional chatter of monkeys swinging from branch to branch. Among them was a young mother, a dusky-furred macaque named Lami, cradling her fragile newborn close to her chest. The infant, barely a few days old, clung to her with tiny fingers, his body weak but warm against her.
The troop had been on the move since sunrise, searching for food while avoiding predators. Lami, exhausted and cautious, stayed near the center of the group, where it was safest. The other mothers glanced at her occasionally, their eyes filled with silent understanding. They knew the struggles of new motherhood—the fear, the exhaustion, and the constant need to protect the fragile life in their arms.
But Lami’s baby was different. He was smaller than the others, his grip weaker. Twice already, he had slipped from her grasp while she was climbing, tumbling to the ground below. Each time, she had rushed down in a panic, scooping him up before anything could harm him. The first fall had left him shaken but unharmed. The second had given him a bruise along his tiny ribs. And now, Lami held him tighter than ever, refusing to let him go.
The sun climbed higher, and the heat made the branches slick with moisture. Lami hesitated before making her next leap. She tested the branch ahead with one hand, then adjusted her grip on her baby. His tiny face was pressed against her chest, his breathing slow.
Then, it happened.
As she pushed off the branch, her fingers slipped. The world tilted as she lost her balance. She tried to tighten her grip, but the baby, already weak, was torn from her grasp.
Lami let out a desperate screech as she watched her newborn fall. His small body twisted in the air, his tiny limbs flailing before he struck the ground below with a soft, heartbreaking thud.
The jungle went silent.
Lami scrambled down the tree, her heart pounding in her chest. The other monkeys watched, their eyes dark with knowing sadness. Some had seen this before—how nature could be both beautiful and cruel, how the weak sometimes didn’t survive.
Lami reached her baby and scooped him up. He was still, too still. She nudged him gently, whimpering softly, urging him to move, to cling to her again. But he didn’t. His tiny chest no longer rose and fell. His fingers remained limp, unable to grasp.
A sorrowful cry escaped Lami’s throat. She held him close, rocking him gently, as if she could will life back into his fragile form.
The troop moved on. They had to. The jungle didn’t stop for grief. But Lami remained, holding her baby, unwilling to let go.
For hours, she sat in the shade of the trees, grooming his soft fur, pressing him against her chest, waiting for something that would never come. The other mothers glanced at her but didn’t interfere. They knew she needed time.
As the sun began to set, Lami finally understood. Slowly, painfully, she laid her baby down in the grass. She touched his tiny head one last time, then turned and climbed back into the trees.
Her arms felt empty, her heart even more so.
But life in the jungle moved forward. And so, with one last glance at the little form below, Lami followed her troop into the fading light, carrying only the memory of what she had lost.
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