This poem sure captures what I feel. Friends living exciting live that matter and me just the nutty woman with too many kids.
By Jennifer Derrick
It's easy to feel common, like
my existence is less rich than his:
my cousin who speaks Russian fluently
pores over geography for his PhD dissertation
has been the first American
in a certain tucked-away site on the Chechen mountains.
My friend lives in Seattle
between the Olympics and Cascades.
Camping countless nights under dense green canopies
seeing multitudes of starfish drawn toward the ocean's depth
she has traveled terrain so steep and silent
that when she stopped running
all she heard
was her own blood pulsing through her veins.
This is what she said:
you can be in the most beautiful place in the world
and still feel utterly lonely.
The delight of these little daughters who want
to be so close to me
makes me realize, again, this rich experience—my life.
Two umbrellas twirling in the gentle rain
four little hands and four small feet
after dinner, walking up the cobbled street
listening to the echoes of their song
I stand and watch and smile.