I am a writer, therefore, my relationship with words has always been an intimate one. I make sense of life based on the words I use to describe it. They help me define and articulate my thoughts and have long since been my tool for healing and providing comfort. To me, words are the window to my world, and yet ironically on one of the most important days of my life, words were noticeably absent.
The inescapable loss for words on the day I first held my son was something I’d never experienced. His beautiful, rhythmic breathing left me mesmerized as I held him against my chest and found myself in a trance-like state of just staring. This perfect being, my perfect being. The cosmic union of sperm and egg stared up at me with almond eyes as I caressed his soft, buttery skin. His intrinsic understanding that I was his entire world, the lifeline to everything, and right then and there, him, mine.
And, it was in this moment I said nothing. No words. Not a single adjective could adequately convey my feelings because in that place, words were not enough. They couldn’t explain the majesty of what lay before me, the magnitude of love I had for him. The life I’d wanted, created, carried and fought to bring into this world now peacefully grasping my finger. He instinctively nourished his body from mine and all I could do was stare back. That which always provided comfort and afforded me the ability to express myself was now somehow completely and woefully inadequate. The typical flood of words, which pulse through me in clips and phrases like blood in my veins had left my body entirely, and in that moment I was simply one with him, words excluded.