Heartwood

Dear, Mother, you used to call me Sparrow. [...] Sparrows are not much to look at, but they're smart. Canny. Tiny, feathered battle-axes. Sparrows are survivors. I like to think, that's what you meant.

Dauntless, unending love. Mothers like her will light the last night on earth.

No, the real sorrow of human life is that we feel. That's our affliction. That's why I wanted to walk for months on a trail through the woods. The world and its people are too much for me. I am crushed between empathy and impotence. I don't think I'm important. Not at all! In fact, I am embarrassingly insubstantial. Then why was I given this heart? It is so much more than I need.

I feel the presence of naysayers in my life, many of them dead now, the ones who tried to chase me out of the service, or worse, the ones who did nothing to rise to my defense, even after I had proved myself a thousand times, and I think, Hear that, ghosts?

That real mother, the mother that you get, you've got to love her, there's no choice. She is the mother you needed. She gave you strength, either because she loved you well or because she loved you poorly. She gave you your mission. It's the dream mother that you have to let go of. The one you pined for, the one you thought your decency promised you. She's the one you've got to bury. She's a mirage. She'll only break your heart.

Occasionally, the human mind becomes aware of the fact that it spins around the earth's axis at a speed of about thousand miles an hour. Lena grips the edge of her desk. "Hello, Christine," she says. "I was wondering if we could talk."

Here's an idea: All emotions start out as love. Later, the love is worked on by the forces of luck and suffering. Hate is just soured love. Fear is wounded love. Longing is homeless love. Love, not pain, is the mother. Love is the taproot.