by Craig Morgan TeicherYou, dear Brenda, are at home with our son, whose remarkable days have him laughing like any kid he isn't. When we made him out of the wish to make him, we knew nothing except our own parents couldn't be close or far enough. Our son can't run, which may be our fault, we'll never know, like sitting on separate daggers. Love is the need to escape the beloved, isn't it? So you can pretend you can't cause any pain? It's a mutation of guilt, isn't it? I hide beneath sheets, close to your belly, and apologize —to you, to my mother, to our son, to motherhood and fatherhood, to all those now fleeing what they love. It's grotesque, but I will cough something up, a bloody string of self, to tie you to me, me to him, him to you, then we can all go our ways, separate or not, or nowhere, and pluck that string, feel each other tensing, teasing the other end. You may not understand—I don't either—but someday we might: Someday shines on families like light.
