Post of the Millennium

I made my way to the shelter, a large tent surrounded by vehicles and people, some in uniforms, and many, many more in the clothes of my culture.  I came to a stop, holding my 6 month old baby, and began waiting in that dreadful line.  People surrounded me, more getting in line behind me, but as long as the line was, it moved forward at a decent speed.  People shuffling forward, children playing with each other, adults looking somber, a baby screaming off in the distance.  My child, who had been sleeping for the entire walk from my house to the outskirts of the village, wiggled in my arms, rubbing his eyes, yawning, beginning to wake up.  He opened his eyes at me, and I smiled down at him, greeting him good morning and cooing at him as I progressed forward with the line.  A gurgle, then a whine, then sobbing, my child breaking down into tears, his cries echoing throughout the area.  I shushed and rocked my baby, but to no avail, his screams could not be calmed.  He demanded food, and I was to provide.  I could not, though, not at the moment.  More shuffling forward, and we reached the inside of the tent, the shade providing some comfort to him, and we continued our wait.  Finally served, I was granted a porridge of rice, meat and vegetables.  Quickly shoveling a few mouthfuls of food into my mouth, I lifted a bit of rice for him, and brought it to his mouth.  He ate feverishly, and I continued to feed him until I knew he was full and sleepy once more, and then helped myself to the remains.