She gained a little weight. She added some more fat cells to her repertoire. Some cushioning pillow softness for a child to nestle its weary little head after a day full of exploring and playing. She increased in size, and when she looked out of the window on a summer’s day and saw John in the neighbouring garden, mowing his lawn, all she could think about were how pretty his roses had bloomed that year.

They nodded their colossal, yet surprisingly dainty heads in the gentle wind that blew like the breath of a matronly mother, overlooking her world. She had smile lines and her hugs were aplenty.

I am a matronly mother, thought she. It is me. I am her.

In the other garden, Minta sat sunbathing her cat. Well, Minta sat. On a rug she had dragged outdoors, wiping sweat from her brow as she did so in a show of how comical it was to lug a heavy rug out on the hottest day (so far) of the year. But once she laid it out it all began to make sense. She was as busy as a bee for about twenty minutes, walking indoors and then outdoors again a multitude of times until she had an array of her things laid out on her rug. Then she lay down for hours staring at the sky through a pair of sunglasses until her cat joined her. Spread itself out on her rug next to her. And there they laid together, surrounded by fast-melting iced water, several books of varied genre, a tub filled with strawberries of all sizes and hues of red, and a flask of something which, when Minta later poured the contents into a red mug, was very clearly piping hot milky tea.

She watched it all. Omnipresent, invisible. Yes, she had gained some pounds. Not of flesh, but perhaps her flesh had stretched out to accommodate the swelling of her fat cells. Too many tasty morsels that month, too little attention paid to what passed her lips. She sighed, and noted the line of pines in Mrs Gallstone’s garden. The children had hung thick rope from tree to tree, she wasn’t sure what they meant to do with it but there was a lot of commotion. High pitched arguing and planks of wood bouncing up and down behind the fence as children carried them to and fro. A life was being formed. Lives. Developed. Lived. Explored. Muddy feet and filthy fingernails and hearts pumping and chaos melting into cohesion. Language learnt. Words built, ideas cultivated, dredged, snatched and moulded into reality. Shaping a generation, for sure. Someone hit someone else on the head by accident, cue a series of wails, but soon all was well again.

Yes, yes, yes. She had piled on the fat. Her dress was a little tighter around her waist. But see? See how life carries on? See how she could step outside on the hottest day of the year and feel those warm rays on her face, how she could take a walk or read a book or drink something cold. Bathe the birds, paint the hues of the inevitable explosion of a sunset that this hot, yet cloud-tinged day promised them? Maybe smell the dusty rain when it finally fell later on in the twilight. Perhaps catch a glimpse of that person who brought her joy. Maybe a conversation with Mrs Gallstone… about her gallstones. Ironies of life. Oh they don’t wait for the pounds to melt away.

She threw her windows open, took a deep whiff of the lemony rose-scent that rose towards her on the little puffs of breeze, and went on to live her life in the joy only that summery sunshine after months of dull cloud can bring.

This was Day Seven of my Short Story Challenge. The why of which is outlined here, and the challenge of which is outlined here.