The sun was just starting to rise through the tall trees near Angkor Wat when I first saw him. A baby monkey—not more than a few weeks old—curled into the earth like he belonged to it. His tiny chest moved only slightly. I could see the effort in every breath.
The troop had moved on. I’d watched them earlier as they leaped between branches and scurried across the clearing in search of food. But this little one—he couldn’t keep up. At first, he tried. His little legs wobbled under him. He’d call out faintly—sharp little whimpers meant only for his mother. But the calls grew weaker. And then he stopped trying altogether.
I stayed back, not wanting to disturb nature’s rhythm. But my heart broke watching him lie there. His fur was patchy, his eyes—half-lidded—looked more like a fading spark than the bright curiosity most babies have. He was breathing through his mouth, slow and dry, like every inhale was a mountain to climb.
Where was his mother? That was the hardest part.
In the distance, I saw her. I recognized her from earlier. She’d paused to dig for roots near the edge of the trail. But she never looked back. Not once. Not even when he’d cried. I wish I understood why. Maybe she thought he was already gone. Or maybe she had others to care for. But to this little soul, none of that mattered.
As I watched, a butterfly danced past his tiny fingers. He didn’t move. Not even to swat it. That’s when I knew things were worse than I feared.
Part of me wanted to scoop him up, bring him water, hold him. But another part knew I couldn’t. These creatures live wild, and human touch—even with good intentions—can sometimes do more harm than good.
Still, I couldn’t leave. I sat quietly, whispering soft things to him even though he didn’t understand my words. I hoped maybe he felt the care in my voice. Maybe he knew someone saw him—truly saw him—in his last moments.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. I lost track. Then… a rustle in the brush.
Another juvenile monkey, a bit older, came bounding toward the spot. It startled me at first. But then… something amazing happened. The older one stopped just beside the baby. He didn’t touch him, but he sat—still, watchful.
A few moments later, the troop leader—a massive male—appeared from the trees. He looked down at the baby, then at the older juvenile, then scanned the area. It was like a silent acknowledgment: they knew one of their own was fading.
And just like that, the big male laid down near him—not close enough to touch, but near enough to share space. The juvenile mirrored him.
Together, in silence, they sat with him.
I wept. Not loudly, but with soft, aching tears. It reminded me of something so deeply human. Of how, in our final hours, the most comforting thing isn’t medicine or miracles—but presence.
Eventually, the big male stood, as if called by something only he could hear. The juvenile stayed a bit longer. Then finally, even he moved on.
The baby never stirred.
I don’t know if he passed that day or held on a little longer. I’d like to believe he felt less alone in those final moments. That somewhere in his tiny body, there was comfort in knowing others still saw him as family.
That little monkey taught me something I’ll never forget. Life is fleeting. Pain is real. But even the smallest among us deserve dignity. Deserve to be seen. Deserve to be remembered.
And so, I write this for him. For the breath he fought for. For the cries he made. And for the quiet beauty of a life that mattered—even if only for a short time.