Nano Day 02******
He grew like a young tree, like a pig fed on milk and molasses. Anwen watched him, unaware of her own growing, unaware of the maturity that was fed into her with this new, helpless thing in the house.
Her mother and father called him Idwal. For those first few weeks Anwen's time with him was limited. Her mother kept to her bed, and, once the midwife was gone, kept the baby close beside her, persuading her husband to move the Moses basket into their bedroom so that she could lie near him, could sleep when he slept and wake before he awoke. When he cried, his mother picked him up, wrapped in his wrappings, and nestled him to her breast. And she stared at him, unconscious of the presence of anyone else and Anwen stared too, wondering at how special this new thing must be that it made her mother forget her, of all people.
Anwen was kept from the room as much as possible. She ran in in the morning to tweak the blankets and stare at the baby's red, pinched face, and she
Nano Day 011.
His birth was one of the first things that Anwen remembered. The beginning of her life in memory began with the beginning of his. Idwal was her anchor.
Truth be told, she did not remember his actual birth. She had no real memory of him slipping into the world, inevitable and streaked with blood. She recalled the long, slow months of her mother's pregnancy. She remembered the growing, physical thing that held her separate from her mother, that pushed her away, an anthill growing day by day beneath her mother's clothes. As ominous as an anthill. As unwanted.
She remembered the careful explanations, the clearing out of the small room at the back of the house, the re-construction of the cot and the re-painting of each cylindrical dowel that made up the bars in white, gloss paint. She remembered thinking, what kind of creature has to be kept in a wooden cage?
And then that day That day when her mother became preoccupied, and poured out tea onto the breakfast cereal. A