by Emma E. Murray
The woman ran through
mud, the flushed cheek of the infant sticking to her chest, his breath rattling, shallow wheezes.
Two feet, desperate to flee,
sunk into soft ground, leaving footprints
carefully measured and inspected with quiet
awe thousands of years later.
A young anthropologist, herself a mother, presses fingers into the
impressions and feels some unspeakable connection
to the ancient woman who ran
with what her colleagues call an unknown heavy bundle,
but a mother knows the weight of a child.
Across centuries. Past decay.
Fear and determination:
She recognizes herself in the ancient footsteps,
hand pressed to her chest.
A mother is a mother is a mother.
Eons later, a woman holds a hot infant to her chest
in the dark of a nursery.
Whirring sounds of an air conditioner and
manufactured rain
from a white noise machine. She longs
to run.
She feels alone in the world.
No one in her life to call. No promised village of willing help.
When the baby’s voice rises in a strange squeal, the fever still not breaking,
She pushes down her fears, the nagging thoughts that
whisper she’s not good enough, they’ll find her unfit,
maybe she doesn’t deserve the baby, maybe she never
wanted this at all.
No.
She runs down the hallway, throwing open the garage door.
Has she waited too long? Her mind taunts her as she buckles the car seat.
Self-loathing drones like
white noise
behind the neon-bright surge of adrenaline.
She wishes her own mother was still alive to help her decide
when to panic, when an emergency
was real and not some anxiety-induced
delusion.
The ER staff know her well, they quickly spot
a worried mother from her hurried feet and the purple
crescents of her eyes.
A mother is a mother is a mother.
The ancient woman ran, clutching the child, because there was nothing else
to be done. Nowhere to go.
There was no solution. So, she ran.
The mud rose up,
clung to her, trying to pull her into an earthen embrace, but there was no stopping.
The baby mewled in her arms, fevered and delirious.
She won’t let them take the child, no matter how this illness
threatens the others (no life matters more than his)
Nor the consequences of leaving (her heart bolts up her throat)
Rather to live briefly and die embraced by wilderness,
together.
The elders wouldn’t allow it. The child was too ill
the men patronized in their heavy bass.
They could never understand:
A mother is a mother is a mother.
The plains were damp with early morning dew, the mud slick underfoot
As she stole away, the first soul awake.
The child stayed quiet as he suckled until her strides tore her breast from his
eager, parched lips.
Ground flew under her until she could run no farther.
Alone in the world
collapsed in a pile of rags and tears,
baby gnawing at her breast.
Could they return if he recovered? (There was no returning)
Milk flowed as she hummed a lullaby,
her fears restrained for the moment,
her face creased with the maternal joy of every
mother before her
and after.
A mother is a mother is a mother is a mother is a mother
© Copyright 2023 Emma E. Murray
About the Author
Emma E. Murray (she/her) writes horror and dark speculative fiction. Her stories have appeared/are forthcoming in anthologies like What One Wouldn’t Do and Obsolescence, as well as magazines such as Vastarien, Pyre, and If There’s Anyone Left. When she isn't writing, she's usually playing monsters and unicorns with her daughter. To read more, you can visit her website EmmaEMurray.com or follow her on Twitter @EMurrayAuthor