The Chorus Line Sings a Little Ditty

My son always worries that when I tell him I love him, I will say, "I love you, but..." I love you. But. He doesn't know that my love has no qualifiers. There are no buts. It is deep and dark and endless. It has swallowed me whole several times. When he leaves, the scars form back on themselves, thick and  deep crimson, waiting for his return. It's my own life that has 'buts' written all over it. I thought if I took care of them they would then take care of me. I thought if I gave them my life, they would embroider it and hand it back richer. I thought if I laid myself down and protected them, they would then protect me. It hasn't happened like that. Never. That 'but' has defined me and finds me even now. I am looking for love, acknowledgement, even a handshake or a wink of an eye. Instead, I get a thank you, as though I am a business associate or a handmaiden. Not an object of love. A voice tells me to do more, it isn't enough. Run harder. Try harder. Do. Do. But, don't be. That wouldn't do.  No end in sight. Just a slow trickle of very old tears shedding little light on the subject.