mother

henry doesn't feel good.

isn't that one of the most terrifying sentences for a new mother? [besides, perhaps, henry's in jail or henry isn't breathing or henry is in the living room with an uncapped permanent marker...?]

the past few days i've held him endlessly as he kicks his legs and squirms and vomits and fills his pants. he'll smile occasionally, a tiny apologetic line. his cries open a giant ache: one that throbs in my head, rips across my heart, sticks in my brain.

i look at his little face, twisted and angry at the pain, and i marvel at my own mother -- who held four of us and watched us grow and put on our bandaids and held back our ponytails when we hovered over the toilet and snapped pictures before prom.

how did she do it?
she is a hero.