I never pictured myself being a mother.
You brought up the subject one evening while we were walking home from my parents' house. Behind us, the sun was setting, and our elongated shadows lay in front of us, constantly one step ahead.
You always had a way with words –it must have come from all the books you read– and you started painting this picture, this brilliant picture which would have been framed and hung up over the fireplace if it was tangible.
There was a porch with hand-carved rocking chairs. We were grey-haired, with twinkling eyes and skin sunken with delicate creases.
The sun was out, and we were smiling over the front yard at our children and grandchildren. The sounds of conversation, punctuated with laughter, lingered in the air. There was quiet bickering between the youngest ones, and on a checkered picnic blanket there were jam tarts and lemon cakes for me and half of our children because the other half would surely inherit your distaste for them.
You talked about tire swings and tree houses, a golden retriever to keep the children safe when we could not. You talked about chaotic family holidays, like Christmas' and birthdays. A big family was something you had always wanted, and slowly I was convinced that I wanted one too.
Thank you so much for 700+ reads :D You guys are the best!
