Motherhood

On Sunday evenings the mice in my garden shiver. I never knew that animals could have such an acute sense of schedule, shivering because every Sunday the white barn owl feasts. She swoops from tree to tree, gliding mere meters from the ground before diving in amongst waves of grass and reemerging with one of their kin. Sometimes I sit and watch her, asking myself if I would give up my life for hers. The power of flight, the cunning of a killer, the freedom to eat, sleep and soar. I look at my hands grasping a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-smoked cigarette and returning my gaze to the sky notice that the owl has decided my barren land has nothing to offer. Mice that do dwell here sigh in relief and continue with their daily activities. My ears are bitten with a January breeze as I shiver, deciding to abandon the other half of my cigarette in exchange for warmth. The house is quiet, save the clock ticking obnoxiously at me, I can hear the walls shrink and expand with each of my breaths. My cage, interrupting my thoughts, she screams, the source of my entrapment- waking up as the birds go to sleep. I must feed her. Her cries pierce my ears as I lift her to my chest to console her. Speaking in this ridiculous voice and smiling without my eyes. It does not help. She can feel me. Why can't I feel her? She refuses her bottle and so I sit rocking back and forth with my child by my cheek. Although I've just escaped from the cold, all that will soothe her is the evening air, and so I wrap both of us up for a walk.

She grasps my thumb with her fingers as I place her in her pram, a strange little creature. Oblivious and defenceless and yet such an acute sense of schedule; she would have nothing without me.

“I’ll be back soon; she needs to get out.”

My husband grumbles a distasteful “fine.,” he wouldn’t know if we were here or not.

Taking the usual path I exchange pleasantries with blank faces, thanking acquaintances for their compliments on the beauty of my baby,

“My how she’s grown!” I smile and ask how theirs are doing in school because it is the only question generic enough to avoid them suspecting that I do not know or care who their children are or who they are, and I know that they do not care about us. We reach the top where it is quiet, and I step towards the edge of the cliff looking out across the ocean. I always wanted to live in a seaside town, I never thought about how it would feel in the winter. Water carries a chill for miles that the salt air spits back into your face, taunting you as it rushes past your tender ears to hiss. The obvious blue of the summer sea is replaced with a tar-like colour that reflects the deep grey of the sky. It seems to go on forever. I am an island. The drop from the cliff captures my heart when I look down and I stumble backwards into the pram- awaking my finally lethargic daughter. She screams and finally I scream with her, me for what I have lost and her for what she has yet to lose. We scream again. Cheeks wet in desperation as we plead to something greater than us to ease our suffering. We scream together, because I know she will grow to wish she were a bird, and she does not understand why she has been cursed with confinement.

The water looks inviting, quiet, profound.

I shake the thought and sit on a bench a meter away. I never thought it would feel like this.