I have no right to be a parent. I have no right to be heard or loved. Life is contested, every moment. If I forget this I overlook its fragility and betray you.
Think of the small marks we make on the world and imagine if they rose up at once, almost an orchestra of dispossession and abandon. A pair of trainers worn because someone found them beautiful in some way. The skirt with its fringe. A ring given by someone who has gone. The boarded windows of a shop, a failed enterprise I can see from its name would fail. Often the last thing I am interested in is success. I love the things that struggle to thrive because they mean so much.