I am a small kid when my mother is on her bed and I am next to her, poking and prodding at her tummy and observing the stretch marks covering it. They look like white rivers on her soft body, traveling from her tummy to her hips and waist. I trail my fingers along them in awe and wonder why she always fusses over them. I laugh when her tummy bounces under the light pressure I exert on it with my tiny fingers. It reminds me of the waterbeds I see on TV, and it fascinates me to no end. I lay my cheek on her tummy, one ear listening to her body. I close my eyes, imagining myself kayaking down a rushing river filled with rocks and jumping fish, acting like an adventurer exploring uncharted wild areas. She cradles my small head, brushing my hair with her thick fingers and red manicured nails, her diamond ring occasionally snagging in my hair. The feeling reminds me of sunny days spent floating in a lazy river. The warmth of her embrace is like the warm rays of the sun mid-July.
My mind wanders, and I am no longer kayaking in rough waters or floating down a lazy river. I am in the picture my dad took when I was born. My mother’s face is pale, a stark contrast to her usual tan face. Her gown is wrinkled and stained from sweat, probably still in pain since she had just given birth to me without an epidural. Despite all this, she manages to smile at me like she is falling in love for the first time. Her ring snags my hair and my eyes open. I am back in my parents’ room. I crane my neck to look at her face, and for a moment, my mother’s face in the picture is transposed on the one I see now. A warmth grows in my chest and I embrace it without restraint.
Lauren Gomez is a senior accounting major with a creative writing minor. She will be graduating this June and looks forward to life after college.