A light breeze came through the open window and played with the hem of her shift. She turned and caught sight of her shadow on the wall seeing the added fullness of her shape. Tenderly, almost shyly, she slid her hand under the curve of her extended girth and looked at her silhouette. Her young, strong frame had bore the change well, but, of late, she felt the strain in her lower back with the added weight.
There was a rustle outside. She quickly dropped her hand and bent over her work. It was only Miriam the mouse who had come to look for a stray crumb. She knew she shouldn’t let the little critter in the door, but she couldn’t help herself. The amount of succour those small, dark, nonjudgmental eyes offered her was more than she would admit to herself. She broke a small corner from the apple she was snacking on and tucked it into the hollow at the base of the door jamb where Miriam liked to burrow in while sunning herself. The spot also gave the mouse a quick escape if Thomas the cat or unfriendly humans ventured into the vicinity.
After rinsing her hands, she used a coarse towel to blot them dry then returned to her task. Rough milled flour was scattered across the wooden surface of the simple table where she worked. With her hand, she scooped another portion of flour from the earthenware jar and kneaded it into the dough that she was forming. She dipped her fingers into a bowl of water at hand and sprinkled it over the dough. Working in the added moisture, she began the rhythmic kneading – pushing the dough with the heel of her left hand, giving the mound a quarter turn with her right, pressing in again with her left, flip the whole ball, and begin again.
The methodical movement softened the tight hold she kept on her thoughts. Questions, so many questions. How had she ended up here? Who even was she? What had she been thinking? Had she been thinking at all? Was it a dream or did it really happen? While the little one growing within in her left no question as to something having happened, it wasn’t what she had pictured for her life. It was too soon. She had always hoped to have children but hadn’t imagined it to happen like this. Would she even be able to care for this little one?
In the months past, when she could no longer hide her secret and the neighbours had found out she was with child, she knew there had been talk. She understood why. She knew how it looked. She saw the questioning glances, the thinly veiled skepticism, the pity in their eyes. It’s true, she had close people who cared for her, treated her with kindness, and she was grateful for them. But, there was a big part of this journey that, even with their support, she still had to walk alone. And she felt that too. Felt the aloneness. Felt the clamp of fear. Felt her insignificance. Wondered if she should have said no.
What then? Would this child have been brought into the world by someone else? Could she have lived with herself if she had chosen to forego the invitation? The unknowns of it all left her exhausted. But then there were these flickers of surety, a deep awareness that she had been invited to be a part of something that was much bigger and far-reaching than she could fathom. In those moments, a trust in something (or was it someone, she wondered) grew within her and meted out a measure of strength. Maybe she could do this. Maybe this wasn’t happenstance. Maybe she was suited for such a time as this.
A stretch of a small limb within her seemed to lodge behind her ribs and brought her back from her inner musing. She took her hand from the dough for a moment and pressed it just below her heart to ease the pressure. She knew her wait to meet this precious wee one was coming to an end. That thought both thrilled and frightened her. There really was no turning back.
Gradually the feel of the dough began to soften and ease. She continued to knead it until she could sense its readiness beneath her palms. After one final pat and a stifled giggle at how the dough ball mimicked her own shape, she lifted it into the lined basket before covering it with a homespun cloth. Casting a significant side-eye in Miriam’s direction, she set the basket in a patch of sun on the windowsill to rise.
She brushed the residue flour from the table into the cup of her hand and tossed it out the window. Miriam stirred from her slumber and scurried out to sniff it.
The empty water jug sat on the dirt floor by the doorway. Absently she unrolled her sleeves and smoothed them down. She studied her hands – brown and nimble. Soon they would caress the round cheeks of an infant. A smile came to her eyes. Tucking straying strands of her dark hair back into her plait, she hefted the water jug to her shoulder, lifted her head and stepped out the door.
