Mary!
You who are a mother, tell me, where did I go wrong?
What did I do? I, who am no different from any other?
Like you, I had dreams for my son—
Who, God help him, is unlike your son, Mary,
In every way!
But when the midwife, weeping in fright, first held him to my breast,
I realized that simply by existing,
My son Erik shattered any dreams I had for him,
And any I ever would have.
You see, Mary, Mother of Christ,
He is a monster! A gargoyle! The Devil's own child!
Have you punished me?
I have done nothing to earn such a child,
A baby masked crudely in burlap
Even before he was wiped fully clean of the mess of birth,
Napkins pinned.
He flails his poor little legs in the air, my Erik,
Wailing for me, but I cannot go to him.
He is a monster, and I cannot love him.
I have failed.
Look out for him, Mary, watch over him—
For I cannot.