My mother never wanted me to cry, so I kept the tears inside my belly until they grew an ocean. My mother is afraid of water and afraid of dying. Cinderella cries over a hazel twig planted on her mother’s grave so that it will grow into a tree that houses a fairy who can grant wishes. My mother doesn’t want to become an ingredient for wishes. She only wants to wish. And so I listen. I drink her tears, but instead of sprouting, I shrink. I shrink until I am just a seed with a small pool of water inside its hull. I remain lying on the hard floor until a little girl comes along. The little girl wears the shadow of someone familiar. “Nothing is alive here, move over,” she says. I follow her orders and move over. We keep doing this until I no longer know how long I have been moving. Some days, I wish I could crack open and spill my tiny pool of water on the little girl, who stays with me just to keep me moving, to give her a chance to grow into something. When the little girl grows up, she will be a dandelion, a crown of seeds floating away, finally away.
Gessica S. Martini 🔈
About the Author
Gessica Sakamoto Martini holds a PhD in Anthropology from Durham University (United Kingdom). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, FlashFlood (National Flash Fiction Day), Shoreline of Infinity, Corvid Queen, Seize the Press Magazine, Crow & Cross Keys, and others. She is a Fiction First reader at Orion’s Belt and can be found on Twitter at @GJMartini. She lives in Italy.