The Beauty of my Son
As Ilay in the darkness, feeling the despair of night, my sight taken by the dark, feeling the despair of the abandonment of oblivion. Here in this darkness, as i sought the bliss and relief of woven dreams, I could not escape my perceived reality. As dark as the night. My face contorted in the agony of shame, disappointment, loneliness. A noise of this, I couldn’t describe as a cry, the growl of an injured animal, found it’s way from my lips, open in the agony of breath. I felt a small warm hand reach around my shoulders, finding my hand at my chest, little fingers inter linking with mine, offering comfort in the blackness. I turned to face my son, our foreheads together yet barely touching, the tears poured from my eyes, a silent stream, not a sound escaped me, as the water left my eye, pooled at the side of my nose before flowing over it’s bridge, a steady stream over my other eye and onto my pillow. My son placed his palm on my cheek, stroked my tired cheek, over and over, he rubbed my ear in the most childlike of comforting gestures and then reached around to take the back of my neck in his hand, giving the most reassuring and strong of gentle squeezes. My love for him was echoed in his little hand that night. As I lay in torment knowing I had chosen my children over the man who echoed my soul, the man who made my soul glow, the man who was etched forever there. My son, my choice, unknowingly had, with instinctive childish love shown me that my choice had been the only one, the right one, as I lay reflected in his childish true love I felt my heart truly break, I almost heard it, like the creak of an old old tree, the gradual gathering of death, the groan of heavy defeat, the slow collapse as it’s roots finally gave up their support, allowing the trunk to split, almost sinking in heavy death, finding the earth, the final and inexorable thud. The thick silence. The deep grief. The exhausted relief.
We gave up our quest for sleep, our search for dreams and silently crept downstairs, careful not to disturb the spell of sleep over the house. We rekindled the fire and sat in it’s orange glow drinking thick sweet hot chocolate, a shared moment of comradeship, his sweet face flitting from fire to me, showing me the glory of his small dimpled smile. The beauty of my son.