Wild Dark Shore

by Charlotte McConaghy

I gaze at this girl, realizing all three of these children have shown me the same open warmth, a kindness given freely and without agenda, and I wonder if that generosity is a product of their isolation, of their loneliness, or if it is simply a truth of their characters.

To miss her less and more at once. To grieve for her less and more. She is balm to his loneliness and a symptom of it. His love for her endures, gives her form.

And I can understand why he might not, in fact, be alright. Why maybe none of us will be, because we have, all of us humans, decided what to save, and that is ourselves.

The world is dangerous and we will not survive it. But there is this. Impermanent as it may be.

But here is the nature of life. That we must love things with our whole selves, knowing they will die.

On a night I thought bound for death we’ve witnessed life instead. They didn’t surrender, they held on, they fought, and my god, so did we.

“Maybe we will drown or burn or starve one day, but until then we get to choose if we’ll add to that destruction or if we will care for each other.”

It is really fucking sad that it should take loss to know the precise quality of love.

Maybe that’s what being a parent is. Expanding to be more. Asking of yourself more, for them.