Appl3sauce

My mother tended her first yield tender, with slender fingers interlocked in a cradle placed over her ripe stomach, the calluses raised from farm labor serving as little pillows for her son. The first time she felt the quake underneath her flesh— the little feet, the kicking feet that would someday hold up a man— she whispered his name, Masahiro, Masahiro. The son rising in the east to reflect her soul. But dawn broke too early, stretching its scarlet, wet arms over her underwear, spitting defiance in a rush of water soaking her feet. On the way to the hospital, she clutched her splitting stomach, screaming and ple