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could look like this forever and have someone to whisper to. And then
the pain came, and I wonder why I was not in fear of it. Pain like a
river, a waterfall, an earthquake...pain like a volcanic eruption that
makes me scream and scream and scream. So much pain to deliver a life
so small. Giving birth was perhaps the most painful and colorful moment
of my life, the ripping of a soul that I’m not even sure exists. It
tore from me like the wing of bird, disabling my flight through the
azure dawn of existence. I felt that when I was crying my tears were
made of glass because they hurt as they came out razor edges carving
bloody scars down my cheeks dropping like bullets onto my heaving chest,
dividing lines around my heart, stilling my flowing stream of consciousness
into a stagnant pool of sharp edged and bitter regret. My whole being
became pain. I was a soul writhing in a sea of boiling agony and I screamed
like a wolf that howls in mourning. I screamed like a bird that soars
across the horizon. And all eyes were on me and I was dying in the pain
that engulfed me and swallowed me whole. If only I could die I would
be happy. Laying eyes on my son erased the pain and closed the wounds
on my face and body, it breathed new life into me and assured me that
our souls are real, and that our pain however intolerable is fleeting
and not in vain. I was afraid to touch him as if he were made out of
cotton candy and my fingers could reshape him and turn him into nothing
but so much sugar from which he was made. My blood marked his body,
proving that he was mine. My flesh, my blood, a new life born of my
womb. A new soul to sprout wings and fly if only I could teach him.
Suddenly all my fears and inadequacies as a mother seemed very real.
God trusts us with this great task and I felt so much less than worthy.
God my son...my son... Years later I could not begin to recall the fervor
with which those brief shards of time were lived and wept and dissolved
into a dream filled with nothing more than ashes of my memories. I held
him in my arms feeling his flesh like crushed velvet, damp with the
sweat of his body, his hair resting like strands of a spider’s web against
my scarred chest and divided heart, listening to the murmur of his life’s
breath through parted lips
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