motherhood

The wind had picked up, warm gentle gusts making their way down Bree’s dusty streets. The rustle and clapping of washing strung from window to window created its own rhythm above her head. Joy leant against the stone wall surrounding the market square, Hjotr nestled against her chest, bound by cloth. That rustling of linen above lulled her into distant memories as she awaited Kip, the grocer, with the parceling up of her goods.