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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Dirt

Image Credit: mnn.com
"...and then the Daddy's seed grows into a baby in the Mommy's tummy."
My mother was round as a Halloween pumpkin, pregnant with my little brother. I was three years old and demanding to know where this new baby was coming from. My parents, never ones to subscribe to the "Santa Claus and storks" mythologies of most childhoods, believed in giving me the facts, albeit presented in what they considered an age appropriate manner. I listened to my mother intently, trying to imagine the jigsaw puzzle-like implications of what she was proposing.
"Do you understand, honey? Do you have any questions?"
I thought about seeds. I thought about the garden I had helped plant and watched grow.
"Mom, where do they put the dirt?"
I think my parents revised their "where babies come from" talk a bit before presenting it to my little brother several years later.

submitted for Thursday Short Story Slam, Week 5 at Bluebell Books

10 comments:

Shauna said...

oh, this is a charming story.

Jingle said...

wow, men, you are daring and brilliant.

Brian Miller said...

hahaha...where do they put the dirt...that is a riot...smiles.

Fireblossom said...

Oh, figures you want the dirt, girl. LOL!

darev2005 said...

I'm sooooo glad I never had to go there. I would have messed that one up royally.

MISH said...

I had a good chuckle with this one ... very cute !

mindlovemisery said...

Awww this is so cute

rickcag said...

That was good, funny.

dragonkatet said...

Lol! Cute!

Bluebell Books said...

apt.
smiles.
How are you?

Welcome join us for week 6 short story slam fun,

Bless you..

Keep it up!