11) Mother’s Day
March 10, 2013 § Leave a comment
I still live in your womb, because I never wanted to leave.
It is damply warm and soft, like a home built from cotton wool and hot ashes. It smells like fresh baked bread, a scent that does not confine itself to the nose but takes over the whole face, pulling at my earlobes, causing my eyes to tear.
If I need you I call out and you can hear. You say everything is going to be fine, even when we are running for the bus and I bounce against your shiny stomach hard, sinking like a ship in a bottle that a child shakes and shakes.
Food comes shovelling into my beak-wide mouth unexpectedly and feels like that time you were on a rollercoaster and as the train suddenly dipped low you tasted joy.
I am too big for your body. My legs dangle out; the rope of a great bell. But I am not ready to be rung. Don’t pull me, yet.
Before you push I want to remember exactly what it is to be a part of someone I love so much. So when I can no longer crawl inside you, I’ll hug my knees under the bed, wearing your old nightie and know that I am a small piece of something beautiful.