In a small Indian village, not far from Mexico City, on a starry bright winter’s night, a child was born.
Her mother died in childbirth; her father named her Sorrow.
She grew up a happy child. All her life she was glad. Then one day a wise man asked her how, with the name of Sorrow, she had lived her life of joy.
She answered simply, “When my mother died, I heard her spirit whisper, ‘No sorrow lasts. Only joy is everlasting.’ But the others, they only heard the word sorrow.”
Short story by Gail Berry
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