Salve
My son is seventeen. Practically elderly. I sit on my bed working because I lost focus out in the office. He climbs in next to me, which sometimes pisses me off—he gets up to trouble, this one—but when he takes my hand in his, I decide to let him stay for a while. This child of mine, my first, holds my hand as if he’s still young. This child who struggles with the difficulty he’s landed in, this child holds onto me. We talk about the usual things that interest him: what is going on in the world, how we think our little family is doing. These moments together remind me of my chosen job of parent, remind me of the fact that despite his age, we still have so far to go. But all is not lost. Our fingers entwine, then fist bump, then simply hold. I think, as ever, about my own failings. The fact that our species has no barrier to parenthood other than infertility, my barrier, explains so much. Because here I am, damaged in so many ways, and I am expected to raise a son, a family, to trust and love and care. It’s practically an insurmountable task. But all is not lost. I know this because of the blooming feeling in my chest when we get that occasional spark of connection. The fingers connect, the mind connects. Perhaps we can save one another after all.