The Mothers
We are the mothers without children, the ones of whom it is written "once upon a time"
We are the mothers without children, the ones of whom it is written that once upon a time, there was a woman, and more than anything, she wanted a child.
We are bakers’ and farmers’ wives. We are witches and queens. We are young, almost children ourselves. We are lonely old maids. We are rich. We are starving.
We do work that brings us honor and work that nobody notices. We nurture and encourage, cook and clean, sew and sing. We keep gardens of beans and rampion and make cake for angels delivering heavenly messages. We go to the temple and make our sacrifices. We discover hidden secrets.
We hold other women’s children, then lie awake at night weeping.
We blame the men in our lives. They should marry us. They should have sex with us. We chastise our husbands because they cannot father children. Their curse is ours. We blame their sins, their diets, their parents. We blame the weather.
We blame ourselves, seeing every weakness and failure. We waited too long, didn’t think of the consequences of our decisions. We have the wrong genes, the wrong health. We are broken and don’t deserve children. We are monsters.
When we prick our fingers, we wish for a child with lips red as blood. When we see a branch or a root in the shape of a child, we take it home and call it our baby. We seek blessings from kings and prophets. We go to doctors, drink elixirs, and eat anything that we are told to eat: eggs, yams, nuts, bones, figs. We eat only those. We do whatever it takes.
We blame God. We hate God. We love God. We turn to God, to gods, fasting and praying for children to fill the empty space inside of us even as we grow more hollow. We pray all night and day. We make bargains, visit witches who cast spells and share secrets, quest through woods and fields. We wish on all of the stars and make promises we will be forced to keep.
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