Thirty Kisses Theme 22 - Cradle

At three o'clock in the morning, the only sound in her apartment in the rhythmic creaking of the cradle as she steadily moves it back and forth with the sole of her bare foot propped on its wooden edge. The small child inside is fussy, making half cries and hiccups, not quite full blown crying. She tries to soothe him, tries to keep the cradle swaying gently, but her son is stubborn, and insists on defying his bedtime.

The woman sighs softly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. It was enough that she was taking care of a child, and she was very relieved that she had been taken off duty for maternity leave. The bags under her eyes had grown more noticeable, and the lines on her face more pronounced over the months since her son's birth. But she didn't regret a moment of it, not once.

The young boy made a quite sob, his small fingers clenching and his tiny feet kicking. His mother leaned down to take him into his arms, lifting him from his cradle and to her breast for a feeding. The baby quieted instantly and suckled, content once more. And now the only sound in the apartment were the soft noises of the child, his mother rocking quietly in the rocking chair by the bedroom window. The moonlight shines in from the night outside her home, illuminating the thin black hair of the child and the skin of her breast. She glances down at her offspring, giving a soft smile.

As the child ceased its feeding, she drew her kimono closed once more and simple held him, rocking back and forth, back and forth in her rocking chair. She was still surprised by the child, as unsuspected as his arrival had been. Her line of work was so active that she usually didn't bleed monthly at all, let alone enough to tell if she was pregnant or not. The same job that kept her active also limited to swelling of her belly. What a shock she had experienced, going in for her annual clinic visit only to discover that she was with child, not a week after her lover's death. It had almost been too much to bear.

But she lived for her son now. And she smiled, thinking of how his father might have reacted, what he would say, do, and think about it all. Her son reminded her of the love she had shared with his father, and reminded her that it would never die, even though the man himself had been taken from her. Inclining her head, she kissed the baby softly, murmuring quietly, a lullaby her own mother had sung to her as a child.

At three o'clock in the morning, Uzuki Yuugao sung a lullaby.