“Look at your face!” I exclaimed to Oliver one evening, reaching out to touch his cheek. A fresh scratch marred his skin — not serious, but a vivid red line stretched from his temple to his eye. He shrugged away from my touch, eyes glued to the television. “It’s nothing. Just a scrape from baseball earlier. No big deal.” And then he added, “Don’t make it a thing.”
Don’t make it a thing? This child — now ten — had spent years coming to me with every little issue, each bump, bruise, and tear presented for my comfort and care. His world was my world, everything about him was my concern.
In the beginning, I used to lie beside him in bed, his small body nestled against me after falling asleep while nursing. I often wondered if by holding him tightly enough, our heartbeats might sync. I had read that newborns and their mothers can regulate each other’s body temperatures, and I fancied that our hearts might do something similar; his pristine, unblemished heart slowing to harmonize with mine, or mine — a little worn and cracked — quickening to infuse his life with the essence of motherhood.
I held so many things I wanted to share with him during those early days: how I had never truly understood love until I met him, how he was the most extraordinary thing I had ever laid eyes on, even with his tiny patches of fuzz. I wanted to promise him protection, a life devoid of pain, but he was sound asleep (thank the heavens), and it would be foolish to disturb a sleeping baby with whispered assurances. Instead, I would press my hand against his soft belly, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his tiny ribs as I pulled him closer.
When I was about five, my family rented a cabin by a lake. One evening, my sister and I ventured out onto the dock after dinner to toss bits of our Popsicles to the fish. We dangled our feet just above the water, careful not to let them touch, recalling a past incident where a fish mistook my toe for food — a lesson learned the hard way.
The dock was slightly damp, and Katherine wore her bathing suit. As I watched the fish chase the colorful bits of Popsicle, I could sense her inching closer to the edge out of the corner of my eye. I would turn to look directly at her, and she seemed perfectly still, right beside me. But in an instant, she wasn’t there anymore. I recall no splash, just her shifting from presence to absence, and then her calm face submerged, eyes wide open, staring at me.
Neither of us could swim, but I called for our parents. My dad sprinted down the dock with the long strides of an adult, leaping into the water fully clothed to save her. That splash was unforgettable.
Now, back on the couch with Oliver, I remember my sister. When I look directly at her, she was solid, unmoving, just my little sister on the dock with her green Popsicle. But when I glance away — to dinner, to his siblings, to my life — I feel him slipping, little by little, toward the edge of independence. I know one day, I’ll look up and he won’t be there beside me anymore. There won’t be a splash or a leap — just a gentle drifting away as he carves out his life outside of mine, away from the warmth of my embrace.
I feel immense pride and gratitude for having witnessed this journey, a miracle of watching him grow — and the same goes for my other three children, each remarkable in their own way. But Oliver is the first to prepare for this leap into the world. I worry about my heart, having tuned itself to the rhythms of these four young lives, uncertain if it can beat independently again.
Yet, when I look again, he is still here, next to me on the couch, with that scratch now faintly bleeding, tiny garnet droplets forming a delicate bracelet on his skin — a reminder of that Christmas when I was so pregnant with him that I could’ve passed for Santa if dressed in red.
I tell myself not to make it a thing, yet I fear that looking away will cause him to drift. So I remain, transfixed by that scratch, willing myself not to reach out, but I can’t resist. I touch the scratch gently, pulling away small beads of blood on my fingertip. His blood. My blood.
And in that moment, he slides, not away but closer, as if our connection is drawing him back to me. He doesn’t even look up from the TV, just shifts slightly, and somehow, this slide brings him nearer.
I still want to make those promises, to assure him it will all be beautiful and safe out there, but now I can feel the strength in his ribs. He needs those promises less. I know deep down that one day, I’ll look around and he won’t be there. Just not today.