The woman who scanned my groceries in the checkout line felt compelled
to tell me (in the two minutes that she held my undivided attention)
that she would never bring children into this world.
She had watched the news too much,
and it was only going to get worse.
I wouldn’t want my kids
to have kids,
she said.

I understood, even sympathized, as I pictured the porcelain skin of my
beautiful blue-eyed daughter and how her face comes alive with
songs, made up in the back of the car while driving through
life on roads where cars drive too fast and people
will kill you just to stay alive themselves.
I know what you mean.
I have four,
I said.

When I was a little girl, I got bit by the snake of fear and it didn’t look like
I would ever fully recover.  The paralyzing venom coursed straight
through my bloodstream so that I couldn’t tell what was
giving me life and what was crippling the life I had.
It has taken years to get that poison out.
At some point I just have to trust
that I’m not in control,
I said.

As if by not having children we are changing anything about this world.
As if by not driving on the highway or flying in planes, we are
changing anything about the helplessness of man
and the suffering of this life.  Staying inside
for a whole lifetime and never seeing
the light of a beautiful day
is the tragedy that
could have been
avoided.

Throughout my life, I have found courage to face this bleak and bitter world
In most unexpected places.  Wild poppies, ablaze with color, seen as a
smear of brilliant red along the edge of a fast-moving highway–
the song of my fair-skinned daughter, floating up, as if
on wings from the backseat of the car,
the song that I hope
never gets unstuck
in my head.

{The sun above,
In the sky there’s doves
There’s doves in the sky
And flying birds
And butterflies in the grass
And everyday I sing}