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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
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