Today my friend C declared how strange it is to realize that her daughter of one year is her own little person. I considered this thought as M and I waddled to the library in the early darkness of the evening tonight, hands held fast. I expect and accept the mystery of M -the fact that I shall never truly know the least bit what it feels like to experience the world in his skin, what his life looks like from his point of view. I know him better than I know anyone on earth, and yet he escapes me. The same goes for all my intimates -my love for them knows clear boundaries and however close I feel to these loved ones of mine, they always remain a cool remove away.
It is difficult to think the same shall be true in regard to my very own flesh and blood. This child growing within me even now will eternally be just as much a foreigner to me as the rest of them, despite his sharing the same space for these long minutes and despite being so utterly of my bones. I would like to think that our close confinement inclines us to greater intimacy, but I know deep down that this isn't so.
And here begins the anguish of the empty nest? I can tell already that motherhood is bound to be an amazing avalanche of terrible joy.
1 comment:
All so true, but when it's a beautiful person, it's so fun and fascinating to watch the development. Even more amazing to think that such a creation came from within the womb.
Post a Comment