Green shoots poked through the melting earth.
Snowdrops, my mother said. She knew about flowers and liked to tell us about them. Sometimes she’d talk about other things. On a sunny day in spring, she shared a secret.
“I’m pregnant,” she said, while lying on her side in tight blue jeans, all curves as she informed her children that another was on the way.
A baby! I heard the words and curled into her side. I touched my mother’s denim-clad leg, wrapped both arms around the fullness of her upper thigh.
“A baby,” I said.
“Yes,” came her voice, “but not for a while, though.”
I closed my eyes and began to imagine the soft skin, the sweet-smelling hair. I had baby dolls, of course, and a younger sister already, but at five, Mallory was too big to wrap into a blanket and carry around. A baby, I thought again, imagining the ruffled clothes and bottles of white talcum. A real baby, I thought, and began to feel as though I might rise up off the mattress and float. In fact, I may have risen to the ceiling with happiness, but I checked myself—I had learned the foolishness of letting go before cutting my first tooth. My mother had always swelled with promise, talked of milk and honey, but was as hard to hold on to as the wind. Remembering this, I pulled myself back to the reality of the overcrowded mattress.
Pulling away a thick wave of cinnamon hair as she spoke, she looked into our faces to make sure we heard.
“We’ll have to give the baby away,” she said.