Poem on Why We're Here

Why I'm Here by Jacqueline Berger Because my mother was on a date with a man in the band, and my father, thinking she was alone, asked her to dance. And because, years earlier, my father dug a foxhole but his buddy sick with the flu, asked him for it, so he dug another for himself. In the night the first hole was shelled. I'm here because my mother was twenty-seven and in the '50s that was old to still be single. And because my father wouldn't work on weapons, though he was an atomic engineer. My mother, having gone to Berkeley, liked that. My father liked that she didn't eat like a bird when he took her to the best restaurant in L.A. The rest of the reasons are long gone. One decides to get dressed, go out, though she'd rather stay home, but no, melancholy must be battled through, so the skirt, the cinched belt, the shoes, and a life is changed. I'm here because Jews were hated so my grandparents left their villages, came to America, married one who could cook, one whose brother had a business, married longing and disappointment and secured in this way the future. It's good to treasure the gift, but good to see that it wasn't really meant for you. The feeling that it couldn't have been otherwise is just a feeling. My family around the patio table in July. I've taken over the barbequing that used to be my father's job, ask him how many coals, though I know how many. We've been gathering here for years, so I believe we will go on forever. It's right to praise the random, the tiny god of probability that brought us here, to praise not meaning, but feeling, the still-warm sky at dusk, the light that lingers and the night that when it comes is gentle.   "Why I'm Here" by Jacqueline Berger, from The Gift That Arrives Broken. © Autumn House Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission