The afternoon sun shone weakly through the leaves as poor Popeye stood on the dusty ground, his single leg trembling beneath him. Life had never been easy for Popeye, but today was the hardest of all. His baby, little Polly, was clinging to his belly, whimpering softly with the desperate hunger of a child who does not understand why the comfort of milk has suddenly been taken away. Popeye’s heart ached. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks, staining the dusty fur. He cried until his face flushed dark, almost purple from the strain, as if grief itself was squeezing his tiny chest.
Polly didn’t stop begging. She pawed at his fur, tried to reach his chest, crying louder each time her mouth met only skin and no milk. Popeye gently pushed her away, again and again, though every push seemed to break his heart a little more. This was the way of nature, he reminded himself—babies had to grow. Still, it felt cruel, like ripping away a piece of his soul.
His single leg wobbled as he balanced, trying to stay strong while Polly rolled on the ground, tiny hands outstretched, sobbing in confusion. Other monkeys watched from the branches above, silent witnesses to this painful moment. Some tilted their heads, others simply looked away.
Popeye lowered himself to sit beside her, resting his tired body against a warm patch of ground. He let her climb onto his lap, though he offered no milk. Instead, he wrapped his thin arms around her and held her close, rocking gently. His tears dampened her soft fur, and slowly, Polly’s cries faded into hiccups. Popeye whispered silently in his heart: “Be strong, little one… be stronger than me.”
