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140 Son, of This, You and I Will Never Speak Because you are my son, I will not tell you about the moment you were born, raw and wailing, into the burn of the still July air. Mothers and sons don’t confess to pain like daughters and mothers. Or that’s what I assume. I recall the shouting, my eyes screwed tight against effort, the assistant holding my knee, pushing her full weight against me. I recall my right hand rubbing my belly, feeling the knots of your heels, even as you left me. I recall the midwife, the bowl, a damp cloth, a clink, the lace curtain. If your father was waiting just then, I didn’t know. My world reduced to your heels, my palm, the in-between, and I paused to say good-bye to you, knowing your departure was only mine to witness. Then, my face tightened. In silence, I went about the work 141 that was mine alone. With my effort and her exhortations, you were born. Of this, you and I will never speak. Someday you might wait, boot soles on wood slats, hands aching for work, but for your wife that pause will be the whole world. ...

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