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Have you ever wished that your wife
didn’t have parents? That she was a leftover
test tube baby, waiting for you on a shelf,
then grown and ripened just for you
and placed at your breakfast table.
But wait: a boy from down the street wants to chime in:
I really like her and even better
since her parents died in that crash.
She's all mine.
So many years waiting for so many deaths,
deaths that we would never even admit to knowing could happen,
the very idea of them so unimaginable
to our wife. Yet there we were,
plotting. It’s going to be so much easier
when her parents are gone.
And then her parents were gone.
Your parents were gone. My parents, also gone.
We spent the rest of our lives wishing
we could give people back to other people,
wrap up a dad and stick him under the tree.
Have her mom sitting at breakfast one morning.