One.

It’s so fucking miraculous.

That’s the only thought that invades my mind as I gaze down at him latched at my breast. His cheeks, now cherubic instead of flat. They droop with weight well earned with dogged and persistent demands for milk. His skin so smooth and perfect, I see why so many say children steal their youth, I see it now in his flawless poreless complexion, the accumulation of my collagen plumping those drooping cheeks. His eyes gazing up and catching mine, the deepest of blues, ocean eyes I find myself losing time staring at, my heart an aching thud.

and it’s just so fucking miraculous.

That this body that I’m holding is stitched together with my blood. my muscle. my sinew binds it together. my milk sustains it.

His genetic makeup is shared.

But he is in his entirety built by me.

And yet, somehow, he is his own.

And when he smiles at me. And I see the light behind those eyes. I wonder at the marvel that is life. Everything is created from something, and he is created from me. And that tie binds us in the most spectacular way. Flesh and blood and love.

One.

Until we return to dust motes in the end, and even then, always one.