Heartache

Sometimes at night, when everyone is asleep, I turn off all the lights, curl up under the bed covers, and I weep.

I weep for the birth I never had.  I weep for my son, who does not yet know his father.  I weep for all the things I wanted him to experience, that I never did without a father around.  I weep for all the things I experienced and he won't, because my father was close enough for occasional visits.  I weep for the life I wanted my son to have.  I weep for the life I wanted for myself.  I weep because part of me still seeks my mother's approval.  I weep for my inadequacies.  I weep for the love I still feel but can never express.  I weep for the heartache that I can never share.

When I am done crying, when I have let out all the pent-up emotions of the previous days or weeks, I pick up my son, my little Ganon.  I hold him in my arms and smile.  He smells faintly of his father, but mostly of that new baby smell (there really is no other way to describe it).  He is warm and he smiles in his sleep when I hold him in my arms. 

I rock him and kiss his forehead.  I smile down at him and sing his favorite lullabies.  My whole world revolves around him.  He is my life, and life is good.