Who am I a mother of, as a mother with no children?
A mother of ghosts? Voices? Body organs? Frictions of the psyche? Of god, the past, the future? Of assembled impressions of my embodiment?
Whose mother are you when you are a mother without having a child?
What is in that deep well? What voices are emerging from the oldest times? Voices well-known to the soul, though foreign to the curious eye. That eye, that wants to know it all. That wants to see everything it hears. The pictures are not beautiful, my dear. They are distorted and crooked. Colored by the layers of time and history that stand between you and the crying baby.