Love is to be admired, but love's shadow is to be feared.
When you hold in your arms a fragile thing, which need only exist in order to bring you indeterminate joy.
You coo and hum and dance and act out all kinds of foolishness, just to keep the tiny creature content.
By all outward shows, you seem a tender thing. A silly thing.
A non-threatening thing . . .
But in your heart a promise is buried. A shadow pact with the absolute worst of yourself, that can burst to full life, should the contentedness of this little sovereign be threatened.
The Gentle mother holding close her young, is a hurricane prepared to break at precise provocations.
As her love for her child grows, so too does her potential wrath, should harm come to the babe.
How terrifying the realization of love.
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