13/9/2018 0 Comments tomato(story) Round and ripe, her baby could not sit without rolling over. What a fat baby, she thought. Squinting through the steaming pot over an open fire. A round ball in peach knit bootees and overalls that kept catching the thatched mat. She rolled on her belly like fallen fruit. Her fingers so stubby she would latch on to them, rapidly grasping to unexpectedly pull away. Chocolate skin stretched so tight like rubber, a needle away from pop.
They can’t say I don’t feed you or that I don’t care. Motherly thoughts ran to as far as the next concern. Worry of what the next mother might think; what her in-laws might say; she is too big; she is too clean; she shouldn’t suck her fingers. Anxiety mounted just because of this round baby, nearly ready to explode. Carefree, the baby rocked back and forth across from her emotionally constipated mother. Unknown to her how much she was neglected. Unaware of the cruel things her bearer replayed in her mind. Of how she could ‘accidentally’ tip the pot over and perhaps it be ‘too late’ to stop the runny lava, to ‘accidentally’ scorch her skin. Dazed in her daydream void of screams for help, she wondered if her layer would peal like a tomato. Grabbing a handful of flour the woman dusted it over the pot. The wooden spoon knocked gently against the steel sides. Feeding her made up for these thoughts. The aroma dancing towards the mat, seized her rock in delight. Swift these moments were, when her innocence melted her mother’s cold despair. How happy she was recognizing that it would be time to eat soon. How loving she was looking to the only person who cared enough to see her fed.
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