Grooming the young ones is a mother monkey's lifelong trade. Salt crystals picked clean, burrs worked loose, the tangles behind the ears kneaded out slow with the pad of a finger.
This year of the yao plague, the troop lost many. Some never came back. Some came back with wounds in their fur they won't let anyone touch. I set out my grooming stone every day all the same. Whoever comes, I groom. And as I groom, the monkey in my arms falls asleep. A sleeping monkey's brow is smooth.
These hands can't stop. The moment they stop, I start counting — counting the ones who will never sit in my lap again. I mustn't count. So I keep grooming.