To think I've spent my entire life waiting. To catch up with what I thought you wanted. Never did I assume I'd passed you at birth. Do we pick our parents, or do they pick us I've heard both sides speak repetitively. Ask yourselves, "What's that to do with living?" When I look into my son's eyes, I see promise. And I don't care for a second who selected who. Love is not about choosing, it's about being. My guess is that the universe reveals no secrets we already didn't primordially suspect or know. I know that I've learnt what not to do, from you.