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| Image Credit: mnn.com |
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
