He will break again, and he will break others. I will tell him this is just the beginning of the brokenness. Should I tell him when he has a child and puts forth this tender creature into the world with only its skin to protect it, he risks the worst breaking of all? Because here I am, my heart within a heart, broken. Small fissures if left untended spreading like cracks across a windshield. Should I tell him even when he marries, the breaking continues? There is no respite in marriage, the breaking is just different. Such waste and futility, this instinct to love. Should I tell him this is just the beginning of the brokenness? He will break again, and he will break others. I did not know when I birthed him that his pain would become my own. But here he is, broken in love for the first time, and I can do nothing because the pain does not belong to me. Landing in my stomach and rising back up. The feeling familiar – a cramp just to the left of my sternum followed by a sinking elevator of sad. My heart is outside my body, wrapped within the body of my child, and it broke yesterday. Yesterday, my son’s heart was broken for the first time and the book gave me this. Within its pages, I find language for my longings, fears and quietest dreams.
A book once found me as I wandered through Barnes and Noble, bright green and small with a collection of quotes by Cheryl Strayed.
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