The very moment I became a mother, my heart broke.
As Max crashed through my body and into this world, shepherded by the steady assurances of midwives and heralded by the clap of angel wings, he slid straight into the hands of his father and let out a wail of life pitched to the exact tone necessary to shatter my heart into a billion shards of glass and dust.
That is the only way I can describe the sudden onslaught of love that accompanies the birth of a child.
It is too much to bear. Too much to bear any shape.
Even the shape of a heart.
Every day since I have lived heartless, and yet breathlessly in love.
For the love I experience now cannot be contained. It requires transparency, fluidity, and openness to osmosis, because every single atom of the ever-expanding universe is the love my children brought and taught me.
It flows through me, to me, and out of me.
It sinks into the three quarks held inside every nucleus of every atom of my entire being.
It is more than I can see. It is all I ever see.
Love.
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