Charlotte Hamrick

Each morning stretches hot and indifferent. The girl works in the vegetable garden among the runner bean plants, twining the pliant tendrils around bean poles. The newly born plants that emerged from dry brown seeds are flexible and soft in her hands. The heart-shaped leaves hum as she works, hum heart-shaped songs or songs that shape hearts. All the girl knows about hearts is that hers is still and dry as a stone vessel waiting to be filled.

*

Once, the girl’s heart was alive with curiosity, flowers, and freedom, embraced by never-ending story-time, twilight sing-a-longs, and hands that always gave. It becomes harder to remember the soaring joy of her once-filled heart, to believe it will ever be filled again.

*

Each morning blooms of bejeweled red ruffles wave at the girl-in-waiting, at her poor dry heart-in-waiting. The flowers whisper words that mingle with the humming heart-shaped leaves, whisper waiting is good practice for fulfilling. The girl rubs her thumbs over the sun soaked leaves, feels hundreds of vibrating hearts humming together. Deeper still, she feels a mother-thrumming from the furrowed earth that birthed the bean plants, that birthed every plant since the Big Bang.

*

Mothers are made, not born. They are a want-to-be, not a given.

*

Each morning she watches as the bean pods flourish, she rub rub rubs them between her fingers and thumb, feels their growing fullness, tends the twining vines. How they whisper and hum in her hands…

You’re the only one our hearts beat for

*

Flutter……. goes her heart.