Rumer Bartholomew
Stories (1/0)
Mother of Mine
Kneeling beside the tub I would sit, chin resting on one hand, propped up by the side of the bath. Immersed in the warm soapy depth, I used my other hand to wash water over her growing belly. Curious, I would explore, gently probing the soft, round shape all the while studying the flashes of purple. Scar tissue that lit up, glistening under the water, reflecting the night light. Consumed, my gaze would move between her stomach and the black mascara that trickled over her cheeks. Transfixed, I watched the stream of tributaries as they meandered across and down her face. Diluted, slate grey boulders streamed from red, raw, bloodshot eyes. She would cry so hard. The pain in her face was one that I understood and so quietly I sat and observed, all the while sharing her sadness.
By Rumer Bartholomew6 years ago in Families