i write this to you, my unborn child, the one i’ll never have.
i write this on a night kindled by inspiration and a man i
might have loved had he not played the game of zealotry so
terribly. in another lifetime, i may have also driven you to
gymnastics courses, or bowling tournaments, or to your first
bar. you might be missing delicacies, like having your fast food
manager trust you to make his lunch when you’ve never made a
sandwich before, or looking over a canyon’s rim in hawaii
and feeling weightless. people say instincts will take over and
i’ll think twice, but i don’t take chances with uncertainty.
the world is full of miserable gates which don’t want to open.
i am saving you from times of sunless suffering, as birthing you
is the same as dooming you to funeral services and sudden,
unexpected changes in your beliefs, your emotions. i wouldn’t
raise you to be religious, but you would think life is far too
sacred and beautiful for you to handle, and then you would often
ask someone to take you in their arms. with water-blue eyes
like your father’s, you would see that even an unhappy childhood
leaves you unprepared for the future. it’s not that i would neglect
you, or force independence on you, but i’ve seen it all and love
is not everything. my own parents tried hard to mold me into an
impossible daughter. alas, i am sad. but sometimes it really is
as easy as it sounds. to forget you’re sad, i mean. yet it can’t
be unlearned once it starts.
Kristin Leprich is a young poet and fiction writer currently attending Illinois State University. She is an aspiring speech-language pathologist, but she never forgets to speak her own mind, too.