So many people have children without realizing the enormous, almost impossible task they have undertaken.
Feeding, clothing, housing a child: these are the tasks you can enumerate and quantify; they can be held in dollars and closets and streets, concrete, actualized, undeniable. You either provide, or you don’t.
Somehow, that is the easiest part.
The intangible is so much more difficult. What does Love look like? Your child will learn at an early age; the knowledge will embed in viscera so tangled and intrinsic, veins must be snapped and bones broken should you wish to remove it. The slightest bruise of emotion drives down deep into the body, a rotten root.
These definitions inform reality, truth; like a magnifying glass, the world is sharpened through them—no matter if the lens is distorted.
How can people have children? The thought agonizes. A scraped knee is patched, and forgotten. But the look of lovelessness stretches inward infinitely, a repeating reflection. A wound that never heals and more so seeks out the weapon of its making to inflict the familiar sensation, like a tormented, unfulfilled ghost.