Proof of Life

Four words followed me around.

“You were an accident.”

If you’re wondering, never say that to a child, to anybody. Definitely don’t repeat it, ad nauseum. Even if they laugh it off, even if they understand the pragmatics of failed birth control, even if they’re later told, “We love you,” even if they think for a long time that those words didn’t affect them, everything in their life is “in spite of.” There’s no outrunning proof against your very existence.

Four words—6 syllables, just 17 silly little letters.

It took a whole lot of words, even more actions, and a long time to convince me those words were wrong.

Words are power. Perhaps that’s why I love them. Maybe that’s why I want mine to mark others with love.