his secret, the giants run screaming, leaving the little boy to run home and share his secret with his mother. She does not run. Mothers do not run, we surrender—we submit to the pain, the abuse, the ungratefulness, the intermittent opportunities to shower uninterrupted. We must endure. I suppose Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist, endured when her son’s head was delivered to Herod on a platter. Or maybe she died first of old age. I looked down at my little boy and felt a tidal wave of tenderness. I am set adrift, no hope of ever reaching the shore. What used to be a shore now only appears in the distance as an island of selfishness and control where I used to live. It isn’t too late. I can still cherish him. I can cherish all my children. Joy and desire rise within me. I listened to the sound of my husband hollering at the T.V. screen. Our older boy perched on the arm of his father’s chair, simultaneously imitating and idolizing Andrew. Ezra needed to be put to bed. But I stayed there on Oscar’s bed watching him sleep. Minutes passed, almost half an hour. Daylight savings time had ended the day early. My husband was downstairs beginning a video game now and I was about to turn out the light. The rain was falling on the tin roof and I was about to turn out the light.
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