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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
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