Sunday, May 24, 2015

15 years

(Originally written in early April, and I'm only now getting around to posting it.  A casualty of my sweet new life).


I sit in my dark living room, holding my newborn son, as the clock ticks toward midnight. His father is in the next room over, having just turned in after doing the early shift with our 15 day old boy, a child so young that he prefers the comfort of his parents warm arms to his cold crib. 


My life changed in a moment, or more accurately, in a series of moments in March.  Our son was born, and with him, a mother was born of me.  Barely two weeks in,  and I am starting to grasp the significance, only the tip of it perhaps, but the sacred privilege - and the responsibility - weighs heavily on my mind. 

I am lost in thought, about the gravity of it all- who will he be? Who am I? How will his life change mine?


I don't know how to answer those questions, yet, but I know that I'll spend every day I have left working towards them.  I will devote my life to being a good mother - the kind of mother that my sweet Jacob deserves.  I hope the days I have left are numerous, that I dance at his wedding and meet his children and grandchildren.   I will do everything in my power to extend my days on earth, so that I have more time with him.  


Mike Maloney died 15 years ago today, or tomorrow as the clock hasn't quite struck midnight. He died at 52, leaving behind three children, the oldest of whom was only 15.  I do believe that he loved us, in his own way, but he left having never seeing us as adults, never meeting our spouses or holding our children.

He didn't choose to die, exactly, but he didn't work to extend his life, either.  The choices he made rattle me more now than ever before.


I am a new mother, having barely two weeks under my belt, but this disconnect feels raw, painful.  How do you make choices that are so at odds with your children's needs? How do you behave so terribly to the mother of your babies?  These questions frustrate me, because he's not here to ask. 

I turn back toward my son, my beloved, so hoped-for child, and kiss his forehead, in silent thought.  A prayer of love, a pledge of sacred obligation, a familiar pang of remembrance for this baby that has only been in my arms for two weeks.


But there's something else there, too, that I can't put my finger on.  It's not forgiveness, exactly, although I do feel that sometimes.  Acceptance, maybe?  Hope?  Maybe it's just belief that I can - and will - be different than that for my child, and that in this way Mike - and his death -  have taught me something about myself. 

1 comment:

  1. I love you so much...for piercing through the facts. Life isn't perfect...but your response is!


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