That summer, we struggled with a mother infestation. They came from every corner of the house, hurtling towards us, carrying casserole dishes or coddling newborn babies in their arms. If you caught one it would criticize you or pinch your thigh so we made mother traps: black, plastic boxes in which we propped pictures of infants, pitchers of Enfamil and pitted chips of the moon. We knew all mothers felt akin to the moon, they liked its whiteness which was the whiteness of their milk; they liked its roundness which was the roundness of their breasts; but in truth they weren't happy unless they could dress the moon in a jumper, place it in a stroller and take it for a walk. They would never be happy unless they could talk to the moon as though it were a foolish baby. If it tried to get its own way, if it tried to revolve in its own orbit, the mothers would lie on their backs and cry, saying the moon would be the death of them. They remembered when the moon was a mere meteorite; they remembered when it was too small to reflect the light of the sun. How had it become so independent? They would lend each other handkerchiefs to mourn the lost moon. They would talk amongst themselves: Who am I now? Am I still a mother? We saw how desperately they longed to cuddle a crying baby. Sometimes, we'd take them from the traps and lay them in blankets. There, there, we'd say, but they would only swat our hands away. They would pray for another infant, another child, even one as wild as a wolf cub. Come to us, they'd call in the night, we want to care for you, they'd croon; wolf cubs came careening down the mountainside. When they arrived the mothers reached out and we held our breaths. We watched in wonder as the young wolves stepped toward the mothers, as the mothers stepped toward the wolves. We waited.



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