We used to say yes to everything. A midnight trip to the Bay, slushy shoes and a bag full of sea salt and sand. Yes, we could make it back, later that morning, just in time for a quick cup of coffee and in the nick of time to start our work day. What about six children and the billy goat? Yes, lets get started. Eight is just enough. And Mr. Mutton? Indeed, the babies will love him! He'll gift us with plenty of gold: milk, cheese, butter. Wool. Casting on and "casting off". I will learn to make knit shawls and fuzzy sweaters. Or maybe we should escape to an island, call it our home, learn the native tongue, have babies and grow old. Yes, count me in. French Polynesia is only some where near four thousand nautical miles away. What if we find an apartment, in the center of a noir city, quit our humdrum jobs and create a way to stay afloat? Yes, why not. We can write a film script, a prequel or a sequel; zombies and social unjust. We can have it done by lunch. When the homeless lady needed a place to stay. Yes, by all means, we are moving out of this studio anyway. (The first bun is in the oven.) She can have the last month all to herself. We have packed up already, from I street to V street, just in time to receive our first little one. The communist boy on the streets needs a sweater? Yes, naturally, give him the vegan V sweater that I ordered off of the net for your birthday last year. He needs pencils and paper and a few books. Sure, give him Malcolm X and he will give us a list. He says we should read it now: Tolstoy, Lenin, and Engels. Emma, Karl, and the infamous manifesto. No reason to say no.
There was never really a reason to say no. That was four babies ago, when our world only presented unfettered proposals. Dreamy eyed and alive, we generally settled on yes and relieved ourselves of no. Not all of what was affirmative then actually came to fruition, though. Four babies instead of six, the Polynesian Islands still wait for us, Mr. Mutton, wakeful only in our Grimm thoughts, a draft or two has been scripted to some degree by both of us but never an exhaustive manuscript.
We used to say yes to everything. Maybe our ways have been naive, too trusting, and a bit unsophisticated, but after nearly ten years together as parents and partners, Aaron and I still find it difficult to say no. These days, saying yes is more essential than ever. Four admiring sets of eyes watch and wait for us to show them this world and its ominous and awe. Four pure and hope-filled hearts thirsty to live beyond this box. Yes, we will bring more babies than our parents ever knew. We will birth them at home with myrrh, frankincense, the goddesses, and the indigo moon. Yes, lets keep driving, cross the California border, through Eugene, and head a bit closer to the coast to a place called Deadwood, that no one has ever heard of. Then cross over the Delphian bridge (which I still believe was in Evil Dead Part 2) and make our way to the old farmstead on Alpha Farm. Yes, we will paint peace signs on cardboard, scribble pro-socialist mottoes on signboards, and wave our fists in the air on 16th and J. The temperature, 96, Judah resting on my hip, and his brothers shouting, "Stop this war. Honk for peace!" Yes, no doctors for me or for you. Yes, we will teach you at home. The same room that we eat dinner in you will call your classroom. Our days will be long and consumed with experiments, literature, song, and soul. Your days will be spent with mother and brothers, dancing and dueling and searching for art. Anointing our spirits and enjoying our latitude and playful moods.
As our home grow smaller and somehow the rooms filled with six, our hours had to accept limits, yet our senses never let go of "Yes".