Apology for My Son Who Stops to Ask About His Mother Once More

The branch, bent to the ground as if under the weight of its own white blossom, is like a sadness I see growing inside you. What can I do but tell, again, how under the fluorescent light, she bent over your swaddled body, her face pale against her dark brown hair, yours dark against the pale sheet. That is your story. This is your share of the world's grief, what you must carry, and which I cannot bear for you.