Mother

.

The girl quickened her pace. The rain would not be long. It was a strange afternoon, a street that stretched endlessly, a people with chill upon their faces. Now and then, whenever a flicker of doubt brushed past her—a loud voice, a hint of menace—she would place her hand gently on her belly: blessed was the fruit that grew there, slowly, unhurriedly, in quiet wonder.

She wore her coat collar turned up, the bag slung across her shoulder, her heart beating wildly. All she wanted was to reach home, slip off her shoes, retreat to her corner, feel the hush and shelter of the walls, the presence of familiar things. There was something umbilical in it all: a promise of comfort, a sense of permanence and peace, a resistance against everything and everyone. It was within herself that she liked to dwell—to imagine the future, to dream it softly, to cradle the child not yet born.

At night, when no one could hear, she would speak to the cat, to the sofa, to the lit lamps—she would speak as one who yearns to be heard: “This child of mine will prevail,” “This little one shall know neither hunger nor want of love,” “No harm shall come to this child—because I will not allow it.”

She trembled when she murmured those words. And she was all courage, all resolve, the very incarnation of a strength she did not know she possessed. And the rain did not fall. And no one came between her and time. And no danger even approached the child she held so close. And she was so slight. And the child, so very small.