There was only one time when I really felt like I could be sure I was keeping my babies safe, and even then I knew it was illusion. These big amazing boys were once snuggled up against my ribs and heart, fluttering, kicking, making my belly look like there was an alien inside. I remember the first time I saw Jonas’s foot roll by, through my tight belly skin. I didn’t even know that he was a him, but there was this tiny foot.
Then there was the end of the illusion of safety, the moment of magic when the miraculous occurred and there was a new person in the world.
The unthinkable is what is on my mind these days. December 15th was the deathdate of a dear friend who died of an overdose sixteen years ago. I remember the stunning dignity of his parents and sister when they spoke to us at his memorial service, speaking with such articulate clarity about the unthinkable and about our friend, their son and brother.
Here we are in the darkest days of the year, confronting the darkest parts of humanity in ourselves and each other. I’m grieving like everyone else. I could be grief-stricken all the time thinking about our children who live in inner cities, living daily with violence and loss, children who live with violence in their homes, or with war in their communities. These are our children too.
I have three hearts. Two of them are walking around in the world every day, without even a protective ribcage around them. Only prayers.