This reminded me of the story of how my grandparents met. There is a certain degree of randomness in all of our lives. Little choices that add up to the path one takes, even without realizing. “The tiny god of probability that brought us here.”
Why I’m Here
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.
by Jacqueline Berger, from The Gift That Arrives Broken.
I like writing, photography, reading, music, design, typography, paper products, days in the seventies and sparkly snow, Spanish wine and cans of PBR. I spent a year in Córdoba, Spain, working as a 
This is lovely. Thanks for sharing 🙂
Just wanted to do a few post-post shout outs:
1. To the Writer’s Almanac. I’ve gotten into this awful habit of lying in bed way too long/falling back asleep, which means I miss a fair amount of NPR and definitely miss hearing The Writer’s Almanac. I get the poems sent to my email now, and it’s a constant source of inspiration. (sidenote: anyone else have a source for modern poetry?)
2. To Jacqueline Berger, the author of this poem. After reading and making note of this one months ago, I finally read some of her other work and really liked it. Which leads me to…
3. The library at the University where I work. Since they don’t own any of Jacqueline Berger’s books, I requested The Gift That Arrives Broken on Interlibrary Loan. Today I got an email that they’re going to buy the book – the second book they’ve bought for me in the past few months. Three cheers for libraries!