I walked across a dust-filled field between the slums and the road where we’d parked our car and hugged a woman who’d fought with the strength of her life for a child that would now be mine.
She’d heard the infant screams that broke the silence of nine-plus months of waiting. Her child came into the world covered in her mama’s very own blood. The babe who kicked playfully against her insides and partook of what little nourishment she had would one day learn to read in my lap and call me “Mommy.”
The cord would be cut, again — with an ocean now between them.
My baby girl was her baby, first.
[I’m totally honored to have been invited to join a host of writers over here, each month. This month’s post was an attempt at an introduction. As you know, that’s hard for me to do without story. Pop on over to read the rest of the post –>]
