Blue

I’ve been haunted by dreams of children in my arms—the sensation of connection and overwhelming love stays with me, even as I wake. I assume it has something to do with the approaching anniversary of my mother’s death. She wanted so badly for me to have children. It was often the topic of our weekly conversations. She offered to come live me for the first year—I told her I wasn’t ready. I thought I had so much time.

I’ve oscillated over having a baby since she died. Sometimes the urge to reproduce rises up to suffocate me—and other times I am acutely averse to the thought of giving up my freedom. I love crawling out of bed at 12:00 in the afternoon on lazy weekends. I love traveling to any given country at any given time. I love partying with fabulous boy queens until 4 in the morning.

I’m sure that there are innumerable joys that come from parenting. But there is also an intense amount of fear. The fuller and purer the love--the deeper the sorrow. Many mothers have suffocated from heartache. Loving, doting parents, carrying little newborns home from the hospital never dreamed of raising junkies, prostitutes, or republicans.

I don’t think there is a word to tell you of the loneliness and melancholy that swallows me up this time of the year. I want to sleep for 30 days. The calendar stares back at me—another year gone. My body tells me when the day arrives. The day when light turned to dark.