I can’t put my finger on it, when did it
change? I would ride my bike miles from
home, even at night and in rain. No one
worried, I would just roam. It ended, maybe,
with a spoonful of cereal and a half gallon of
fear, the milk carton asking, feral and wild:
“Have you, have you, seen this child?”

When did having children become an
imposition? Mine were a gift and a reason to
keep trying, a joy and a purpose to postpone
dying. When did people reach the grim
decision that making babies would only reap
regret? Maybe it happened on the internet?
Doom-scrolling starving polar bears and
forests burning down, all trampled to death
by carbon footprints of our own. Therefore,
breeding carbon copies would only be
complicit. Ergo, we will have no
grandchildren to visit. 

How did folks forget that we are children of
the universe? That we’re allowed here too.
My toddler daughter knew. At twilight
beaming pure delight, using her own voice:
“Daddy, there’s a ‘tar up in the ‘ky!”
Maybe, I could also give my voice a try?
Look up and hear the bluebird sing his
ancient Navajo song, “Get up, my
grandchild, it is dawn!” Reminding me that
I belong.