"lonely old courage teacher" Allen Ginsberg

I held a 5 day old infant recently, the surprize at 42 child of a colleague who thought after 3 missed periods, the thickening in her waist must be menopause. Gives new meaning to the phrase "fat chance".

She seemed, the baby that is, more creature than child: wrinkled, veined skin; an opaque, far-off look in her grey eyes. She was pliable and loose-limbed and utterly, unmistakenly vulnerable. When I should have been focused and cooing (although I did coo of course), I thought of my daughters, who were 4 and 5 pounds each when they were left the morning after their birth in a blanket-lined box on the steps of the orphanage. They were smaller than this baby and they were alone.

Although they were delivered to nannies with good intentions, they spent those first months in metal cribs in a building with little heat. I tried to imagine the warm skull, not yet covered in bone, fitting neatly in the palm of my hand lying with my daughters. Unable to raise their heads. Unable to roll over. The view infrequently changing.

I am deeply indebted to the nannies who cared for my daughters. I am not criticizing their work. I just wonder at how something so frail survives. Was it luck or genetics or more attention given to their adorable twinness. I am not willing to say God or fate, because where does that leave the ones who didn't survice.

I look in my daughters' eyes sometimes and see a sort of resistance, a strength of spirit that has nothing to do with me or even, I think, with genetics. Will or soul? I don't know what to call it. But I am grateful for it.

Bless your fierce little hearts.