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[Hank Chinaski]

Originally posted by ltl/fb
No, not our children. The children of the world.

Martha fortifies herself with a drink and prepares to give her own recitation and somber recollections about their son - a decades-old illusion and fabrication which has devitalized their marriage. George offers additional quiet asides during her trance-like delivery of a clearly-remembered birth and childhood:


Our son was born in a September night, a night not unlike tonight, though tomorrow, and sixteen years ago...It was an easy birth, once it had been accepted, and I was young...and he was healthy, a red, bawling child...with slippery firm limbs and a full head of black, fine, fine hair which, oh, later, later, became blond as the sun, our son...And I had wanted a child...oh, I had wanted a child...And I had my child...Our child. And we raised him...and he had green eyes...and he loved the sun...and he was tan before and after everyone and in the sun his hair became fleece...beautiful, beautiful boy...So beautiful, so wise...Beautiful, wise, perfect.
Very significantly, George adds: "There's a real mother talking,"