Having Been Born, to Live

Years later, she remembered how inconsolably
the baby cried, how nothing could soothe except 

bouncing the mattress nonstop. She'd lock
both of them in the room, away from others

disturbed by the wail of misfortune issuing
out of the mouth of one so young. But was it
  
indeed misfortune? What of a life might have
pointed to its development, when the sound 

of a window opening or closing was not even 
a thing of portent? What is it we mean when

we say May you have a good life? Not that agony
might never visit your door, nor the wish you 

might never know the pain of monumental loss.  
Perhaps, only that you might live, despite.