Miriam, January 28
Belmont. Sweet Jesus, already. Lighten up.
I kid.
Belmont was my first baby. But—and this is hard to explain—he never really behaved like one. Sure, in the beginning, he cried and squirmed and royally screwed my sleep schedule. Somewhere along the line, though, his eyes turned grave. I didn’t try hard enough to hide my sadness during that period of my life, and thus, Belmont was born a second time.
Born into sadness.
Belmont’s father was my one. I might be a French chef who believes food has a soul and tiramisu done right can inspire baby making, but I am the furthest thing from romantic one can get. And yet, I fell in love with my oldest son’s father the moment we crossed shadows. I was not his one, however. I didn’t know how to be his one…and still retain Miriam. Like Belmont, he was the kind of man who demanded all or nothing. With or against. Love or die.
So I chose to die a little and regenerate. But my son—my giant, beautiful, stormy, aching, ageless boy—he seemed to court the favor of sadness. It shoved him down into a well, robbed him of words and the ability to relate to people the way society dictates he should. There’s a place inside him no one has ever reached and therein lies secrets. Turbulent truths. The ones he tried to express across my kitchen table with his eyes but couldn’t find the right words for.
Watching my three children orbit the dark planet of Belmont gives me hope, though. Rita, Aaron, and Peggy are the smartest people I know—apart from myself, of course—and the way they cease all movement when Belmont speaks and treat his words like commandments, tells me others will one day do the same. If the demons don’t get him first.