Down to the Cell

One must argue that if the fetus does have a soul, so then must the egg. For the egg is of course just waiting for it’s time to take a shot at life. By what mechanism it does decide or if it is the body that compels it to its loading dock I do not know. Some say fourteen days go by before the cell of lover’s sperm and egg call out to its mother for her blood. What single tryst goes by those two weeks in the cradle of life. A romance, ah but no more by comparison as that of the tragedy of hundred souls that wait by the hours only to slip through time.

Women carry hundreds of lovely unfinished children in their lives and each one a pain to lose, I can tell you that. Each one by the moon goes by and does not protest one way or the other so who are you, sir, to decide that the unfinished child would seek vengeance upon Mercury and Venus for their eternal divide. And the sun! Give birth to them all in another life!

Men their millions of smaller and swift particle child souls that choose their time in a more, shall we say, opportunistic way throughout their ride in sex organs. Still swimming in the primordial soup and genetically aware of ye old father time and what it shall bring with it on its journey to the nether-life if it should get so far. As is the case, it is a race with ye old father time to the moon that goes by and does not protest one way or the other if ye should get there alright.

The protest up to the mother at picket line. Protest ye mother, oh Nasty Woman, PROTEST. But all mothers of time have heard themselves screaming not always for their children. And sometimes some souls hear it all the time and still protest in silence, for the battle is within ourselves as well as outside and we do not wait for ye old wasted souls at the starting line! We lose them at their hours and there is more to say for that than can be said.

What to say today to you, my daughter or son or that by then had surely chosen one way, both, or neither. I write to you all the time but not often do the letters swim out of the pen in alphabet gumbo jambalaya chunky meats and holy vegetable and no gluten. Speak to me in soup my darling, for it is ash in my mouth.

I know we’ve never spoken, but I love you very much and hope that you have forgotten my awful touch and humanity. I have not. We’ve never spoken. I haven’t named you much. Just somethings and I hope someday I forget your birthday. I’ve forgotten, you see, like the letters before, to stop counting. The soup and the years that go by without them, I don’t miss them as much. But I still know how old I am. How gone you’ve been.

A decade older and still not rich enough. By and by. For mother’s love. Still bearing your aborted fetus in my ulcers. I wish we had never been born to each other! I love you more than ever. And maybe I should stop there and go away forever. But lo! There in that thing. There the very strange thing I say to you again is that I love you! Behold that northern star, kid! In it the ancestors of time have written love songs for our lost children. What I have not written to the desert sun. What I have not written because I am young and unfinished.

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