On the way home from the hospital, the day after giving birth, I stared.
People in cars, people on sidewalks, people walking into stores, people riding bikes, people in houses and at parks and even flying high above me in the sky, some of them sitting back to flip through an in-flight magazine. A tiny new person in the backseat of my car.
All these people were birthed by someone.
All the collective hours of contractions, all the nights and days of literal labor to deliver a new person into the world. All the care of dressing these children, feeding them, growing them into the adults who now stopped at the red light next to me. All that creative, human work.
Suddenly baffled that any of us anywhere would ever go to war.