From Mother, To Son
I grieve for you, son, the little boy who used to be innocent. I grieve for you now, even more, for you wouldn’t let me grieve with dignity.
I am not happy being here. Mothers don’t love repose. We yearn for life, for the infinite chance to tend to children—they who persist in the vision of eternity that humans dream of. That was how it was in the beginning, in the thousands of pasts from which we woke up, like a journey from grave to grave, wherefrom each end, a child beams, reaches out his frail hands to touch the wind.
Yet, even from this grave I yearn to be your mother once more. I would have traded death–this tranquility that is the envy of every living soul that struggles to make both ends meet–or, these many solitary chambers I have spent time at as a ghost capering from rest to rest, dreaming of life freely, of activity, of joy in sadness, of love letters scampering like dried leaves that refuse to land, of going back to motion that is full of consequences for the living if only the living knows where to train his eyes on, yes, for a chance to make you a child once more, knowing that it would make of me, once again, a slave of chance.
For I want to grieve with the quietness that bare life deserves. But even in grave I can still wonder: Why can’t these images that had blinded you, and every man I knew, deserve death more than every child’s innocence?
Now, I grieve over your lost innocence that you had learned to trade so skillfully for honor and dignity that I sometimes marveled what had come of it—this preponderance of cunning self-images that you took as your own!
Pride, wealth, power.
But, oh, how can I grieve?