You’d wear this well.
(read by Pam Notchey)
(press play for audio)
You mean more to me than those kids do. Not just any kids but our kids, the ones we haven’t yet had, the ones you don’t want to have, the ones you won’t allow us to have. Those kids, those blue eyed kids we couldn’t likely have or the browns we likely could. The little ones, the large ones, the someday grown ones. Whoever the kids, they don’t mean nearly as much to me as you do. My lineage, my line, not into the end of time. Those kids, the unborn ones, the ones I thought I needed and wanted don’t mean nearly as much to me as you do.
The finger paint, the face paint the paint spilled on the kitchen floor, the paint I’d have to scrub and wouldn’t want to, we wouldn’t have to worry about because you wouldn’t have the kids who would use the paint. That paint, that objectionable, annoying, dribbled but not drying paint wouldn’t exist anywhere but the shelf of the store and that’s fine with me, perfectly perfunctorily fine, finer that wine because that paint would be played with by the kids we don’t have, the kids I don’t have to have to be happy, the kids I thought I needed the way I thought I needed you but I don’t because I’m perfectly fine without either you or the kids but I’d rather be perfectly fine with you and without the kids if you say so because who I don’t need but who I want is you. You, with or without those kids you don’t want to have, is the you who I want because you mean more to me than those kids do.