Incidentally: My son

There are loves that are acts. Actions. Sweepings beginnings and endings. Most loves are that. The way that I love my son is all the other things, the fleeting and the soaring, the evoking and the leaving unfinishedly satisfied things. Questions that grow the mind, answers that scorch the eye for the truth in them. Instanteneous and eternal, about the smallest and the most infinite things; it's not something I could ever explain in terms of what it is. I only try to say here what it does. Loving my son is a spectular, recurring event that changes everything each single time.