Amanda (II)

Momma. Not what the word used to mean. Happy to be here — happy to be holding this boy. The sounds he makes so otherworldly; he’s speaking in a language I cannot yet understand. He’s his father’s and his mother’s son, but more extraordinarily still, he’s himself. The entire cosmos flashing through the light reflected in his pupils. At night, when my husband is at work, I contour his face with highlighter and blush. It’s easy to wash off. I just want to see what he looks like grown up. What kind of man he’ll be —thick with his dad’s beard? Will he be covered in tattoos, as we are? Will he be a lonely teenager, just like I was? I want to see him right now, at age twenty-five. Fully formed and self-aware. Intellectual, sexual, progressive. Happy. Successful. Then I wipe his face gently with a washcloth, and remember that I’m supposed to be treasuring these moments. Then, I remember that he’ll be a person — his own person — and there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.