In the soft shadows of a forest clearing, a tiny baby monkey sits alone on a low branch, his small body hunched forward as he stares at the ground below. Where once he had two tiny hands to grasp branches, groom his fur, and cling to his mother, now only one remains — the other lost to a trap set by careless, cruel hands deep in the forest.
He is too young to understand why it happened. He only knows that now climbing is harder, grooming himself is clumsy, and holding tight to his mother’s back is no longer easy. He tries, wrapping his little arm around her neck as she moves through the trees, but sometimes he slips, squeaking in fright until she stops to catch him again.
His mother tries her best. She holds him closer now, carries him longer, and grooms the spot where his tiny arm ends in soft, careful circles. She chatters to him in gentle sounds, telling him, “You are still my baby. You are still strong.”
Some days, he watches the other babies swing fearlessly from branch to branch, both hands reaching for vines he can’t hold. He wants to follow them, but his single hand grips tight to the tree instead, tiny eyes wide with longing.
But even so, he is not alone. His mother stays close. Older siblings pause their play to tug him into little games, pulling him gently so he doesn’t fall. The troop makes room for him, moving slower when he climbs behind.
Though the trap took a piece of him, it didn’t take his spirit. Each sunrise, he learns to balance better, climb braver, and hold tighter with the hand he still has — proof that even the smallest monkey can find new ways to hang on to life.
