She sang softly as she cradled the small boy. Her voice could not be called beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. It broke on the high notes and all but disappeared on the low ones. Yet it had that quality of love, which cannot be artificially produced. She sang to the child, feeling his warm body against hers, and felt she was beautiful.

*Okay everybody, I have decided to just go ahead and make this fiction (which it kinda is anyway) even though it's in poem form. Life will be easier this way. Hope you enjoy!*

They sell fruit in the markets, and bread.
Fish, too, and all the usual things.
But then there are some corner booths in the shade.
And they have a lot in jars,
a lot in tightly shut pouches.
A penny for this, a nickel for that... I dig in my pockets every time,
my useless change suddenly full of worth.