A Mother
Flash fiction
I hate the feel of lycra, especially if my nails are short — my fingers are hypersensitive then. As I pack my daughter’s gym bag, I shudder at the touch of her leotard. I broke one of my nails last night, picking her brother’s toys up off the floor, so I had to cut them all shorter than I like.
Short nails and a hideously pink lycra leotard are not a good combination for my senses. The nerves in my fingers send signals to my brain in protest, yet my brain, still in maternal mode, ignores the signals and continues.
I finish packing my daughter’s bags and move on to my son’s. First, I empty the contents with trepidation (one never knows what one might find in there).
Mouldy oranges. The oranges weren’t in there yesterday, so I dread to think where he has been hiding them before putting them in the bottom of his gym bag.
I stare at the greying, powdery texture of the orange skins. It suddenly hits me: I’m a mouldering orange.
My skin doesn’t have the bright sheen it once had, it’s saggy, no longer taut and firm, just like these oranges which had at first repulsed me but which I now see for what they are.
They are a reminder of how quickly time passes.
Having packed their bags, I retreat to the garden. I run my hands through the herbs to release their soothing scents and repair the damage done to my fingers by the dreaded lycra. The feel of lavender heals my offended hands, the relaxing fragrance calms my agitated state. The smell of fresh mint revives my mind and lifts my spirits.
After just a few minutes alone in my herb garden, I’m ready once more to return to the house, my family, and my life within.
© Melissa Speed
