My Child Comma

My child,

At times I remember my parents, as you will one day remember me. There was so much that they were, and were not.

And when they loved us, we looked up into their eyes and gave silent thanks to such beneficent deities, that would love a thing so small and frail.

And when they harmed us, we carried the undeserved wounds as if they were payment for being brought to a place so full of wonder and truth.

But the wounds- they festered, and bled, and became infected with the vilest fervency. During the infected fever of the night, we rolled and tried to toss the heat from us, the harm. Strange visions and recollections haunted us through the moonlight as we cried their names, cried their names.

When we woke from the fever, we were children no longer; we were strong and scarred.

And, now, we turn to love our own children, and you look up to us with eyes of silent thanks. And in those eyes, I feel I could dance to a waltz unsung. I feel I could render silent thanks to such a deity, that would love a thing so small, so frail.

My child, I am only you, and I would never hope to be more.