flesh of her womb

my sisters are moving to australia. my mother is also heading south, towards despair. her babies are so big, so capable of caressing life into their own shape and size she feels like a cling-on. yet cling she does because they are hers -- flesh of her womb, woven from her genes. tired of always letting go, fatigued by her own feelings she runs. shafts of golden wheat crowd her as she races the rows, cries with the crows, dies to herself. we all watch her return, hair tousled, eyes wild, hands calmly at her side. that's all, she whispers, then falls by the pond. her babies stroke her hair -- there, there. is it all too much to bear?