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03-05-2014, 12:07 AM
The soft nicker that comes from Cashmere is a comfort, and I smile. I wonder what the egg can hear, if anything at all, from within its fragile shell. When it hatches, will it remember Cashmere's touch, her voice? Or will her memory be nothing more than a half-remembered dream, a forgotten wisp that never quite comes to the surface but lurks, buried on some subconscious level below? I suppose it must be quite like our own childhood. I couldn't say that I remembered my mother's womb, but I undoubtedly knew her as soon as I was born. So, too, had my own daughters known me. It argued that we knew what was ours, though perhaps not those that passed by, even if they brushed their maw along the outside of that thin layer of skin between air and babe... She seems to have a revelation, admitting that she wishes to become a mother. I pause, regarding her with curiosity. I could tell her of my failures, or my desire to be a mother and the subsequent heartache that ensued. I could tell her of my stillborn daughter, or the twin that vanished, of the youngest still lost in the darkness. But who am I to spoil her dreams, to ruin her fantasies, to pretend that my mistakes will be hers, too? "If you wish it, it shall be so, one day," I tell her finally. "Motherhood is beautiful, but it is also hard. I think you would do well, though." I smile at her, and at my egg. For the moment, I am at peace. "Talk talk talk." |
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