I see her first at the back of the church. I’ll have to be nice to her then she parades it in She of all people and Christmas morning dirty blonde hair and face light-filled from the hand-blown glass windows. how dare she a baby. Last summer we all shepherded children: tent to lake to washhouse to meals. All of us were alike in furtive trysts. I’d carefully resolved to lose track of virginity the way you should a relative who won’t stop drinking. I spent womb-years drugged with prevention, let the pills make me nothing. I told myself, in a minute, a baby, not now, soon. I’m staring, I’m trying to look not at her I’m thinking when Mary came to visit Elizabeth, it leaped up inside her, it knew. Liz burst out, sang. The boyfriend arrives now, late, half-proud. They were clearly fooling around; or she thought he was being careful; or the condom broke. This is a regular miracle. I’d settle.
♦