He is my son.
The thought is foreign to you. You are ten and six years. You have been married for only one of those years. Motherhood is expected of you. It has been an inevitable fact since you were a little girl. You haven't been a little girl for a very long time. And now, you are a mother. The thought remains strange to you.
To think, this tiny, furious, pink thing is your son. His head fits neatly in your palms. His crumpled, baby body barely the length of your arms. It barely seems human. It could not possibly be your son.
But then, oh but then, he opens his eyes. You are the first thing he sees. You are no rose, no breath-taking beauty, not after hours of labor. Your hair slips in tangled knots about your face. Sweat beads from every pore on your skin. You are careworn and tired, a weather-beaten bloom. You are the first thing he sees. He smiles and ceases his cries. It is a simple, quiet act. But there is something to be found in his eyes, the way they light up and gather in the corners. And you know then, you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He loves you, no questions asked.
You fall for him, completely, violently. You fall for him the way wildfires rage. Everything in you burns to smoke and soot and ashes in the wind. There's nothing left. You are a little girl no longer. You are yours no longer. You are his. You are his mother. And you think...
He is my son.
Her Jack is a precocious child. He never walked if he could run. He leaps and never looks. He doesn't trail after your skirts, never clung to your apron strings. The moment he could, he slipped far and away from you. But you know just as all mothers know. You are his first and foremost. He'll spring from his sleep with your name flying from his lips. Mama! Mama! He will yell. You are the first name he calls when he's scared or when he's hurt. He'll come limping through the door with a new hole in his clothes and fresh tears in his eyes. Mama! Mama! He will cry. You were the first word he spoke, all those years ago. He stood on shaky knees and wobbly legs. He gazed at you with those same awe-struck eyes that never beheld anything more wonderful. Ma-ma! He said, proudly and loudly. Mama! Mama! Mama!
And something seared a red hot brand on your chest. It is love, you know. It is love for this bright, brilliant, beautiful boy.
He gives you dangerous things, your Jack. He brings home wart-ridden toads and slime-sticky snails. He leaves dead robins on the table, half-eaten mice by the stove. He catches the cold and the pox, and shares it with his sister. He gives you dangerous things, like moonlit embraces in the wake of nightmares, like sheepish smiles with broken wrists and sprained ankles, like defiant pouts after endless streams of scoldings and spankings. He gives you dangerous things, like strangled bouquets of flowers, like a misshapen rocking chair, like his very first step. He walked towards you, because he knew, just as all children know, you would be there to catch him if he falls. You would catch him every single time.
He gives you dreams, the most dangerous thing of all. You dream of the man he will become. He will take after his father, you think. Oh, he's grown so tall, taller than you even. Give him a few more winters, he will grow broad shoulders and sturdy limbs. He will be a man of his own making. Perhaps he will start a trade or explore the frontier. Your little farm can not possibly contain his potential. The world is his, you know it. He will be a man you'd be proud to call your son. And you think, he already is.
You can see it now. His whole life stretches out before you. It is a long, winding road filled with hardship and struggles. But it will be a happy one, this you do not doubt. He will find a wife, not a frail thing, but someone who would match him grin for grin. And he will have children. He can be so good with children. He will love and be loved in return, your Jack.
But the problem with dreams is you wake up.
Dreams, you learn, are fragile things, dissolving into sunlight the way winter melts into spring. There is nothing you can do to stop it.
"Jack fell through the ice!"
Nothing.
"My condolences. We were too late..."
Nothing at all.
There is a boy with his father's laugh and his mother's smile. He tears holes in his trousers. He tracks mud through the house. He fidgets during Sunday sermons. He can never sit still, always out and about, always in trouble. You hold him in your arms. You sing him lullabies. You kiss him good night. You tell him bed time stories.
Once upon a time, there is a boy. He has his father's strength and his mother's fire. You fill him with your hopes and dreams. He brings you depthless wonder and endless memories to treasure. You know he will go far. He will be someone some day. He will marry and have a family. They'll live happily ever after.
"Mama, where's Jack?"
This isn't how the story goes.
"They - They saved him, didn't they?"
This isn't how the story ends.
"Mama?"
There is a tug at your skirts. Your daughter stares at you in askance. The floor disappears beneath your feet. You think you are flying. But before you stands old man Willows, a hat clutched to his chest, head bowed in grief. No, you aren't flying. You are falling.
"Don't you bow your head. Don't you give me your condolences. Don't you mourn. Don't you dare mourn!"
"Madam, please. Calm yourself."
"You get back out there! You hear me? You get back out there and you save him. You save him this instant!"
"Madam, hear reason! There is nothing more we can do!"
"Save him! Save him, I beg you! Save him!"
"Mama! Mama, no! Let go! You're hurting him!"
Your daughter flings her arms around your waist, clutching you with all she has because that's what you are. You are the only thing that's left. She clings like the very last leaf on the stripped-bare branch. And you are, you think, bare and naked, flayed open for all to see. The world rushes in you and you sink. You sink to your knees, releasing the man before you. You drown.
"Save him... Save my Jack..."
Because there was a boy. He had his father's pride nd his mother's love. He looked at you and never knew anything more beautiful. You used to hold him in your arms. He would curl about your chest, and you thought, oh. He is my heart, grown arms and legs. He is my heart, walking outside my body.
"He is my son!"
He is gone.