The Dichotomy of Love

Sometimes I feel that living life is exhasusting. The majority of nights during the week that I look forward to daylight ceasing, and bedtime approaching, is concerning to say the least. I ignore it though. I ignore the blatant shift that is happening in my life. I've been reverting to memories of my past more than daydreaming of my future. I feel nostalgic more than I feel hopeful. I hold in waves of despair and oceans of tears that linger in my body, swelling, with the innate potential of a forceful cascade of salt water behind my eyes. I agree with others to keep the peace. I scoff at romance. I fear that I have lost myself. I can't afford to do that.

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When I held him in my arms for the first time, he and I were weightless. We were floating under the florescent lights and my heart was bursting at the seams. I thought to myself, "so this is love". He was the most precious skin that had touched my skin. My breasts surged with milk from the tiny rivers that were created in me, distinctively; unlike my veins. I nurtured him with gold and then with white. His tiny hands gripped my finger fiercely, he wasn't going anywhere. With every ounce of my being I knew that I would protect him forever and always. I knew that my dedication to him was undying. I knew that he had given me my purpose. I knew that he was a tangible miracle; my son.

I wanted a family so that I could experience unconditional love. I wanted a child so that I could keep a lover. I was young and I was heartbroken. I was full of regrets and I was naive, but not as naive as I told myself I was. You always know in the center of you, in the center of your chest next to your heart, in between your lungs, whether or not something or someone is good for you. The day that I saw the plus sign on the plastic stick, his father looked at me with those piercing blue, almond- shaped eyes and said "we can do this". I knew we wouldn't. A year after I had my son I experienced storms within my being that I had never lived through before. Earthquakes disrupting my peace. Anxiety, suspicion, and fear stained my perspective with blacks and blues. In the midst of this hormonal storm of chaos and confusion, I was sinking and his father kept the raft on board. He would only protect his blood.

My son is now seven years old and we have changed. He is witty, silly, courageous, and not surprisingly to me, insightful. He has outgrown his ringlets and now he has wavy hair. His eyes are still just as angelic as when he first opened them. There are earth tones in his eyes, but also the sky. He is inspired to learn the piano. He dreams of skateboarding. His laugh is my favorite laugh and when we laugh together I know nothing else that makes me happier.

I am stressed most days however. My skin has grown dull. My patience has grown thin. My dreams of traveling the world and singing on stage no longer arouse my sense of motivation. I am his mother. I am a student. I am lonely. I am single. Sometimes I think that he keeps me going though. I used to imagine myself as so many different people, and now I can not.

I was stumbling.

He has solidified my being and although I will never know the freedom that I once knew in the life I had before motherhood I feel a new sense of freedom. A sense of freedom that unchains the innocence in me. A sense of freedom that comes with learning how to respond to experiencing indignation; from learning the hard way and from saying goodbye when you don't want to. A sense of freedom that comes with the palate at your disposal to shape and color another soul's life.

I watch him sleep and I look at his chest ebb and flow like the waves. What a calming and serene scene.