the earth looks better from above

before i was born i would thrash, says mum, small red legs kicking the sides of her stomach. making indents in overalls, white cottons in summer and her heavy green knitted jumper, kick, kick, kick and she cried out, bent over in pain. my father would crush banana for her, peel apples with a breadknife and watch while she lay, sweating, with feverish face up against the cool brown tiles of the kitchen floor.

later, despite all this, he stopped at too many traffic lights on the way to the hospital and his old blue car rocked back and forth in the rain with the force of two redfaced women screaming to get out.