When I was seven, my mother knelt and held my hand, and she told me ‘Darling, you’re an old soul. You’ve been here before. Things are going to get scary, and I know you’re a sensitive soul, always worrying too much about others, but I know you can handle it. That’s why me and your dad want you to be there. We want you to be apart of this.’
Her belly swelled between us, she was just weeks away from giving birth. I was just weeks away from turning eight.
Days later we sat in the kitchen, the fire warming our backs. She pressed a bag of runes into my hands. ‘Now sweetheart, these will help you in times of need. They wont tell your future, they’ll tell you what you need to know. They’ll help you understand what’s going on. I know it seems hard, feeling older than a lot of the people at school, but it’ll get easier. Now let me teach you how to read them.’ The stones felt cold in my hands and too big, but they made me calm like a stream of water.
After my mother gave birth, people at school asked if I was terrified seeing my mum like that. I remember staring at them and telling them that birth was natural. That even if something did happen to her, everyone has to go back to the earth sometime. That eventually, we have to give back what we’ve taken and that some of us find our way back anyway. I think then I tugged on my ponytail and told them that everything would have been fine anyway, because she was my mum. It couldn’t have been any other way. I was eight years old.
I honestly don’t know how I feel about this… I’m not used to writing in such little descriptive detail, so I thought I’d give it a go. Constructive criticism is a wonderful thing.
Based on real life events.