my thoughts finding shape as fragments, these days of the very week our beautiful boy turns one:
in a single split second, he left my body. the great history of mothers and children. memory of his first breath: pink and blinking, shipwrecked on my chest, tied together by a single thread for one or two or three heartbeats longer. one way to make sense of the passage of time: celebrate it. gold of hair and generous of kisses. his voice: the gathering of a hundred songbirds at my window. i don’t know what i am doing, but mothering him feels more natural to me than filling my own lungs with air. these boys i get to call mine, and the thousand suns i feel rising over my heart at just the thought.
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