And have you ever regretted those words,
spoken in light but planned in darkness?
Did it seem like such a good idea,
in those days before, when the three of you
laughed and danced and joked and sang
with delight, before delight had even been invented?
Did you know, when you said to each other,
“Let us make some people now, some good ones,”
that you were sentencing yourself
to years and years of dirty nappies,
bare feet on carelessly discarded Lego bricks,
and ungrateful teenagers blanking you every day?
Did you know that you would spend
sleepless nights, longing for the days
of innocence, when a grazed knee was
the worst thing in the world,
but so easily fixed with a hug, and rewarded
with the dried tears that made you feel loved?
Did you know that you would bear it all?
Every broken heart?
Every bad decision?
The death of every pure thing?
Every act of cruelty and hate, some so evil
that they leave an irredeemable scar on history?
And does the pride outweigh the shame,
and the hope outweigh the despair,
for the three who trust so much?
Do you say, “That’s my boy!”,
or “I’m so proud of her!” when we take
our first faltering steps onto the shore?
And do you see beyond the reborn darkness,
to the flicker of light in every act of love,
so small, so frail and yet so vital?
And when you reach down and we slap your hand away,
is your forgiveness and patience really endless?
(Because I know mine isn’t.)
And are you looking forward to that time,
when we’ll finally come to our senses,
and you’ll at last be buried under the weight
of all those “Best Dad Ever!” mugs
that we made or bought in secret
with the stuff you gave us in the first place?
And do you have a knowing smile,
or a tear in your eye, as Adams and Eves,
so desperate to become gods,
discover that divinity is hard, ugly work?
Do you ever look at the stars and wonder,
these days, who’d be a father?
