Every week we went walking, me with my baby

in the pram, then one more, then another.

You with your anguish, five years trying,

and still nothing to push in a pram

beside me. Each time we’d stop in the park

and you’d squat down to be with my children,

or ask to hold the baby. Walking

home, we’d pray, out loud, not caring

who stared at two Asian women, walking

and talking to God. I was always

exhausted. Always asking for patience

and sleep. More sleep. You were often

angry. Why did God take your mother

so early? Why the cancer that came

for you in your thirties, wasn’t diabetes

already enough? How long would you wait

for a child? Forever? I prayed for you,

wondering what kind of God would give

to one so much, so little to

another. Years later a photo

arrived from Sydney: a baby girl.

Yours. I pressed it to my chest

and wept. I thought of the holy book

we both know well, its string of stories:

barren women, unwed mothers,

longed-for children, and unexpected

arrivals. I take your story up

between my finger and my thumb,

and pierce it with my words: this pearl

of grief and joy, this tiny flaring

star, that pins you to my breast.

That tells us who we are.