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On Vending Machines

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It was 11pm at night. He slid from his seat and toddles over to where his Mother is staring blankly at the wall in front of her.

“Mommy?” he asks tugging at her pant leg. She smiles down at him, the tiredness is evident in her eyes.

“Yes?” She asks.

“Could I have a Soda?” He ventures. He looks up at her with hopeful, yet sad, eyes.

“Sure.” She says gently. A smile that she has not seen in weeks spreads on his face as he bounds down the hallway with a crumpled dollar in his hand. He never is allowed to have sodas at home. His Mother watches him go. If a simple Soda can allow that beautiful smile to grace his lips again, he can have Soda every day. She thinks, leaning back gently in her chair, thinking for a moment that everything could turn out okay in the end.




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