“Sometimes the saddest work is not the nursing, but the lying,” Anita offered. “Telling men who won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise that they are fine is the work of the many mothers who cannot be here with their sons.”
“Or of the many wives who cannot be here with their husbands,” Cristina said.
“Or of the poets,” Margaret added.
Anita nodded, “Sadly, there is poetry in telling lies.”
“Yes, but shall the angels ever forgive us these lies?” Cristina wondered.