ZERO
My son and I were lying on my bed, looking up at the ceiling and speculating about eternity. It was just like when I was his age, ten or eleven; I'd stare up and think: Eternity means forever. And ever. And ever and ever and ever and ever. Eternity means I'd still be saying "and ever" from the last time I lost myself in the scaleless white, trying to make sense of eternity.
At some point I turned toward him. He looked at me without lifting his head from the pillow. I reached over and brushed his hair behind his ear.
"I wanted you. You know that? I really wanted you." I paused, pressing his face with my palm. He held my gaze for a moment.
"Yeah...," he said, knowing that. Then he turned back, squinted, and addressed the ceiling. "But why?"
I might have thought it was the question I was always waiting for. The one that would free me to share the whole story: how he came to be and why I gave him up, and how everything had been shaped by his absence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to know, but every month and then year that passed, I kept having to remind myself that he was just a child. He would need time. Time to build muscle and learn to walk and eat lots of breakfasts and get the training wheels taken off his bike, and earn an allowance and spend it a million times, and practice cursive and pass notes in class, and ponder lots of different careers-maybe even go to college and get married-before we could talk about those things.
And the way he studied the ceiling, I could tell he meant something else. He was asking everyone's question. It was the question, Why everything? Why consciousness? Why time? Why desire; why love? He wasn't hurt, and he wasn't looking for an answer. The question wasn't for me. I turned back to the ceiling and asked it with him.
It was just like him to contemplate such things. And it was very much him: lying there, skeptical slits of eyes piercing the ceiling, weight so real he sank into my duvet. It was exciting to have him there with me, and it was fun to be cohorts confronting the universe together. But the most fantastic thing was touching him. No one was watching, and I wasn't thinking about whether it was okay or whether it made him or anyone else uncomfortable, or whether I was allowed to express my love like that, without restraint. I didn't think about anything at all! I just reached over and combed through the blond mop, bent the warm, rubbery flap of his ear, as it felt natural to do-as I had, in fact, never once done. He had never been to my apartment, and we had never lain like that. I'd never said those true words, making sure he understood. I'd never let my affection flow straight from my heart, through my outstretched arm, and land so solidly and without hesitation. I'd never enjoyed that relief-profound, even as he turned and let it roll to the side, his mother's love, imponderable as eternity, shedding it as a son will do.
If I could have, I'd have turned to my other side and put his question to my father. But when I woke, there was just the west, buildings gleaming pink, illuminated by sunrise. And another eternity to contemplate: I would never, ever, ever be my son's mother.
Copyright © 2015 by Amy Seek
