March 1, 2010


A friend of mine once said that a certain rawness shows through my writing. I told this friend that I feel raw, and I am glad the rawness translates.

Not today. Today I feel raw, but it is the wrong kind. I do not feel exposed so much as abraded open with brillo pads and bleach. It wounds me further that what I am feeling now is but a 10th of what she feels. Only a 10th.

What must it feel like, to love someone as she did? I cannot imagine the depths of devotion she maintained for him. He was not only her first born child, but a first born child with major disability. Nothing was more important to her than her child. She slept little, adhering to his schedule, waking when he would wake. She loved the sunshiny days when the temperature wasn't too warm, wasn't too humid, because he was positively giddy to be outside. She dropped everything each and every time he got pneumonia, and often forgot to eat or sleep while caring for him. His life was a miracle, and she celebrated that miracle with every fiber of her being.

I can't know what it's like to love someone so much that they become a part of you. The way people use the word "love" means nothing. What she had was love transcending the meaning of the word. She had an honest unconditional devotion to this other being. No imperfection was actually a flaw, because you cannot just love pieces of a person. You must love the whole being. She loved him. He was born to the right people. I just wish that they could have kept him a little bit longer.

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