The Mother

At 3am one night I am awake, hot and alone. I crack the window to get some cool ocean air and I hear an odd thing. Young Children. Playing on the beach. Their laughter rolling in the sounds of the ocean's lap. Despite their happy sounds, I worry about them. So many things can go wrong in life when you least expect it; when you are carefree and playful and reckless. In the darkness, I cannot determine their precise location so I retire to bed, nursing my scars instead of suckling my offspring. In my dreams I tenderly care for these beach orphans whose parents have allowed them to play on a deserted beach in the middle of the night.
The warmth of the sun caressing my cheek awakens me in the morning. My blonde hair is welded into a messy state by the salty water from yesterday’s swim in the ocean. Out on the deck in my robe and slippers, I sip my coffee and slice a couple of extra bagels in case of visitors. The beach is wrapped in a blanket of silence for hours until the families begin swarming it with their umbrellas and coolers. I study the faces of the children amongst them searching for the ones I heard last night; the ones who look like they too haven't slept, mini descendants of myself with darkened hollow eyes, droopy mouths. I see a petite fair-haired toddler napping, swaddled in a princess blanket and I send out thoughts of love and motherly concern to her. Children can feel those things without words. I care but I do not smother.
I leave the window open each night to listen for my children. They know in their hearts they are always welcome here and I keep a secret drawer of snacks just for them. I would have been a good mother.