Billie the Bull

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Billie Marcus cradles the larger one in arms made only for him. He settles safe in a crook that fits his growing arc. She can already see how his feet are beginning to test the skin of his shoes. His legs, his arms, won’t be far behind. She will need to get sewing again.

The growing comes in painful waves; of this she is well aware. He turns infrequently in his sleep, but when he does it is with an unintentional strength and muffled noise like the growling of a feral dog. When his body jolts, she holds strong. Repercussions of a weaker grip from a smaller mother echo in her memory; Billie winces.

Her smaller one, so baby-bird-pitiful lies lonesome on the floor. Some blankets. Safer. From the beginning she felt she would break him, but this was what she was given. This is what she would live; as she must with everything else.

The smaller one fit well in his easy thrift store clothes, second-hand shoes. His feet won’t force the fit. His feet, she knew, would take their time before making new ways; and when they did, it would be nothing unusual, nothing special; blue skies of shelves of everything for that one. No struggles will mark his path, nothing like the sufferings the one in her lap will come against.

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