70

My hands rubbed my stomach in slow circles. I didn’t have control over this body, so my mother was moving on her own. It was almost like she knew I was here somehow and was trying to show me as much as she could.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps running toward me permeated my mind. A little boy, maybe six or seven years old, sprint my way. One hand stayed on my belly as the boy got close. I hadn’t expected to hear my mother’s voice, but I felt her mouth open. I would have felt a shiver of anticipation had I been able to shiver.

“My, you’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” she said as a smile spread across my face. She had a slow, smooth voice, like a fresh honeycomb pulled from the hive. It was easy to listen to, which made me wonder if she had been a good singer.

The boy nodded. He couldn’t immediately answer her because he was still panting from his sprint. His black hair was an adorable mess. She chuckled and tried to pat the unruly locks into a more presentable style, but it didn’t work.