Warriors and Angels, Mothers and Sons I've been a mother of three for nine years. You'd think I would have the hang of it by now. It's 9PM, two in bed, one to go. Curled into a stiff ball, tears spilling from my clamped eyes, I lied next to my six year old son, as I did every night and told him not to be afraid.
"Of what?He seemed pensive, quiet.
"A mother who cries a lot."." I murmured as I stifled little catches in my throat. Like an old outboard with a broken choke, sputtering across a lake embarrassed to be seen amongst the more worthy craft.
We lay still for a few minutes,witnessing each other through the silence. His lovely body seemed so vulnerable. I tried to do motherly things. Kiss his head. Fluff his pillow. Pull the covers up over his shoulders.
He was still - reaching for me; the mom he used to know. The one who read books every night, invented special signs only we knew, knew his favorite movies and sang special songs. The women who could make him laugh amidst his tears.
I laid my hand on his waist. I knew mothers should do this; offer comfort somehow. My hand settled into the shape of his hip. The bone was distinct and delicate; beautifully curved and filled with space. Warm, living breathing space,it seemed to me. Space filled with a living breathing life force, which I was somehow partially responsible for bringing into this world. He sighed slightly at my touch. I could sense the crest of his inhale and the depth of his exhale as his ribcage rode his breath. Simultaneously, I felt myself rising in exaltation of having the esteemed honor and complete privilege of being chosen to be the sole female on the planet to have birthed him and then assigned watch over this magnificent collection of breath, bones and undeniable life. At exactly the same time, plunging straight into the depths of my heart and landing in despair so great, I recognized instantly and with certainty that I could never, ever, have enough grace in my gaze to reflect back the rays of illumination that shined so brilliantly out of his little soul.
I pushed the tears down my face with the palm of my hand as I padded across the bedroom rug, wondering if warriors ever grew wings or if angels learned to fight.
Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne Wells
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