My son is a memoir. The boy child is a thing with a searching gaze that finds my own to hold it, and I allow it to be held. His blue eyes cure mine blue. Cue them to look, look close. This is the special secret to my missing motherhood. That ideal is a look of total honesty and no truth spared. All secrets of the heart passed on and revealed and thought-thru if not realized.
I find it first in a lover, then I love him down and make a son to love. And the boy asks of me the questions of love that even a best lover, a man, cannot ask. And the asking becomes the very answer. The boy will not know for a great while that he has been the one to teach me this, while I teach him of other things.
My son is a small thing that does not force, but pulls gently, at the living capacity for love in me. Demanding presence, and words to compensate his words. His is everywhere. He demonstrates no silence and he does not sleep.
The boy is the net of the very best of all that is lover - mine and not mine - cast wide. He calls to daring deed and happy action and will not know, for a great while, that he has done and loved because he cannot have done otherwise.
My son is the greatest story of life and I am his mother. The fire of him is pure and my respect for him is great. My urgency for his discipline & direction are profound, but not stifling.
My son is evolution, an eon, a thousand shining petals adorning the lotus promise. My son is every woman's son, and I love him.
