I hope that my child is an artist.
That one day, when I am sprawled on a recliner, reeling from exhaustive hours and little sleep, he will proudly come to me with his first Crayola-on-canvas.
I will sit up straight and instinctively proclaim it a masterpiece. Not out of maternal obligation or necessity. Simply because I go mad with tenderness at the sight of his face.
He will smile, maybe even laugh in excitement. Then, just as I am about to lay back down, he will gently place the painting in my hand.
I will look at him and ask, “Why? It is yours.”
And having no answer, he will take it back.
I hope that my child is a writer.
That years later, when I am sorting through his belongings, reminiscing the days he spent with me under this roof, I will come across the same painting with a scrap of paper attached to it.
I will remove this scrap of paper. And scribbled across the top in dark, bleeding ink will be the words, “It Is Yours.” Underneath them, a short but neatly written paragraph. Against better judgment, I will read it:
“For all the pain you suffered, mama. For all the torment of your past and future years. For all the anguish your protectors caused, mama. For the unspeakable mystery that brings parents into the world and lets a child watch them tear at each other’s throats. For your dreams of horror, nights of waiting, and memories of death. For all the things I remember and for all the things you helped me forget. For all these reasons, mama, I created this painting.”
I will cover my mouth and hold back tears.
A child does not need to understand suffering; they fall asleep knowing there is someone stronger protecting them from evil.
But my child, understanding that suffering can be healed, fell asleep in my arms knowing he did not need someone stronger.
