By Jing Villamil
AT three months, your birth Mom gave you up.
Her doctor said she was raped by a street smart. “You were not meant to be mine. I pushed him out of my bed, now I push you out of my life. His son is not my son.” She as good as said. Her eyes were cold, there was no love there in those orbs.
You were not of her flesh but your new Mom loved you at first sight; she loved, too, the three who were pushed and pulled out of her in pain, in shrieks! She clutched you in her arms. You were so slight, so light you seemed just a puff from gone! She nosed a kiss to your face; her tear dropped.
She walked you home, and showed you the paths she took each day to work, that you might take the same paths and not be lost when you must walk, too, to here to there. “And here is a friend and that one is not” and she winked at the friend and frowned at the one who was not; and she laughed out loud when she was winked back and frowned at.
You felt her joy! You perked up your ears, you sniffed, you gaped an OH! with your face so small it was just she who can see the minx in you! You claimed the whole house from the start to the time you learned to crawl to run to climb. And to fall soft and safe from up high.
You were hugged, smooched and scratched. You squirmed, you arched till you moaned – more more more! Your bowl was served first than the three first borns! They signed with their thumbs it was all right-o. You were loved and that was that! In time, you jumped years to the first-borns’ months!
Your leaps let you peek out at your peers who were not kept as well as you. You crooned and cried and screamed “let me go out!”. Once, you slipped through; and out there you knew. The rest of your life is not in here but where the wild wind blows!
Since each day you seemed to want to look out more and more, they knew that soon they will have to set you free. For, let out, you can not be let in the first-borns’ arms, their play, their beds. The risk would be too great. And they were three; you were one, though so much loved. But not this day, not yet.
Stay still. Oh my. Oh me . . . meowww. (Writer’s note:: All words used in this. piece were monosyllabic: one word, one count. Try to read it out loud.)
Share your Comments or Reactions
Powered by Facebook Comments