Alma's story (Five minutes freewrite)

' Itsy bitsy spider. Climbed up the waterspout...'
The words to her song are barely audible, she signs in a hushed voice so only the baby on the swing can hear her. The kids in the playground watch from a respectful distance and keep their voices down, too. That's what they always do when the lady in the loose faded-blue dress comes to the park. The other mothers huddle together on the wooden benches farthest from the swing, silently motioning to their children to keep quiet and wait until the woman is gone.
Alma is oblivious to the silent theater behind her back as she keeps her loving eyes set on the swing, pushing it slowly as the baby is so little. Something must have startled her though, a fly or perhaps a bee, her hand slips and shoves the swing up in the air, sending the baby flying and landing face down in the dirt. It makes no sound, not even a tiny squeak - the young mother cleans it as best she can with a corner of her dress, coos over it and cradles it in her arms as she walks away. All's well in the world where Alma lives.

The playground returns to its normal state of playful chaos and loud carefree voices of the children. The women share sad smiles and compassionate nods. There's not one of them who doesn't know Alma Moreno's story. As mothers of small children, their bodies have not yet forgotten the cherished burden of pregnancy and they feel Alma's loss deep in their wombs, wombs that have sheltered and nurtured the happy children running around them. Alma's baby was ripped from her womb when she was five or six months pregnant. Mr. Moreno could not allow his daughter, only 17 at the time, to ruin her life and have a baby with the son of some white-trash hippies who lived in a trailer. Alma and Joe had been hiding for weeks, moving from one motel to another, when Pedro Moreno caught up with them and dragged the girl to a clinic where somebody owed him a favor. Most people in the city owed him favors and granted him one even if they didn't.
Rumor had it that Alma went insane the moment she woke up after the procedure and her hand could no longer feel the baby moving in her womb. She'd howl for hours locked in her room, her lips bitten dark-cherry red, and no amount of pills or harsh words could make her snap out of it. One night Alma grew quiet and her mother ran to the room, afraid that the girl had managed to kill herself. She found the girl curled in her rocking chair, cradling an old doll to her milkless breast, a look of bliss on her face.
Seasons changed, kids grew too big for the swings, others were born and took their place, only Alma and her baby girl remained the same. Still wearing the faded dress with white roses on the skirt she had worn to cover her baby bump. When Alma's hair grew white and her now-widowed mother was too old to take care of her, they sent her to an institution. There are no baby swings there, but Alma's child is bigger now. She sits on her mother's lap, while Alma shows her pictures in a book and reads her stories about little girls just like her.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: cherry! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!

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