Above Ground

by Clint Smith

little one you are my daily reminder that you do not go to a garden to watch the flowers grow you go to give thanks for what has already bloomed.

But some days, I worry that we are welcoming you into the flames of a world that is burning. Some days, I am afraid that I am more kindling than water.

If the doctors said you were impossible and you arrived anyway does it mean they were wrong or does it mean you defied science? What is the difference between science and a miracle other than discovering new language for something we don’t understand?

You, little one, are not attached to my body, you are neither a limb nor a slice of skin, but you are part of me in ways I am still discovering, and when you are hurt, I feel your distress spread through every cell in me. I experience your wounds as if they were my own.

Your great-grandfather was born in 1930 Mississippi. You were born five months ago in Washington, D.C. Your life is only possible because of his ability to have walked through this country on fire without turning into ash.

How glorious a sight it is, to see an entire room of people you love swaying in unbridled synchronization to a song we have transformed into tradition, a ballad we have reimagined to help us mark this annual celebration.

Praise the toys scattered across the floor, and the way you wonder if it might be okay to just leave them there for now, since you know tomorrow they will end up there again.

My life is made possible by trillions of tiny mysteries. I exist because of so many things I’ll never see.