Cycles around the sun.

tallestmanonearth

Nearly 2 years on, and the thought of him moves me to tears. His cries still wake me at night. Teething, fevers and a colic not exclusive to living babies. I still feel him. When I cook and talk on the phone, he is monkey-gripped with chubby legs coiled around my hip, playing with my earrings. We are there together living, paralleled perfectly in that other universe, while I am here alone, bereft till the day I die. I can see how much he makes me smile and how effortlessly he defines me. It’s clear how much he affects me and in that universe his every need becomes my purpose.
Almost two revolutions around the sun, and although my son is absent, I still circle. A party of a thousand new words and thoughts and people and situations fill the communal playground of my head since that night when I had to give him back. And although I have healed, in as many ways as I’m ever going to, I come to the realisation that part of me will always be in that hospital bed, late at night, listening to the screams of other labourers, one question gaining velocity in my head. Where is my baby?
I seek to find him and not to create him again. Because I wont abandon him and I will not banish him to the past. You have a child so it can define you and so you can dedicate your life to them. And so that’s what I will do. No matter how wrong or peculiar that may seem to some. So when we left the body of that little boy at the hospital that no longer accommodates for the birthing of children, we took with us the soul of The Tallest Man On Earth. We took with us the ghost baby that knows me from the inside out. The boy who makes it rain for me. The reason that I love the clouds and the sky. The star that’s simultaneously dead and alive. We took home a name given after his death. And just like a living child: he began to grow as a personality, a character, I piece him together from the music that conjures him, from the flowers that he pushes from his grave for us to see and the gifts I buy him. As I change so does he and I will carry him every single place I go. I will show him everything I see, teach him every new thing I learn. And the fact that I will always be his mother has been etched on the very fabric of space and time and if nothing else is forever, then that’s one thing that is.
What have the seasons, in that time, changed? Everything and nothing. They take me full circle and drag me always back to this. This is the scratch in my record. Something that forever interrupts the frivolities of the song. So I find him in the cracks, where other ghosts used to live. At the bottom of my teacup, where the future is told almost as accurately as the past: I see him. He’s the satisfied sigh after the reviving and comforting final slurp. The falling of leaves and the blooming of flowers, the frenzy of Christmas and the barren quietness of the new year. I’m swept along by it all, and outwardly I play the right part, make the right moves, show how I can simultaneously hurt as well as heal. But inwardly I throw it all away like the butt of a cigarette. Inwardly I will always be alone. Because once you have given your body to that little seed that grows and comes alive, that loves you from deep within the womb, nothing else can ever fill the space it once occupied. And now forever he is my smile and my tears.