The Prophet said children come through us not from us. Let’s confess that sounds deliciously spiritual, doesn’t it? Although I catch his drift, I’ve come to deem it bologna, a shell game of prepositions just beside the bearded lady. His verse would have us vessels rather than continents, something to be passed through on the way to something else, someone to be used rather than cherished. No, as we came from our parents our children come from us. Try as we might to live as citizens of some new brave world we course with the blood of the old country and its manners. I am not a prophet nor the son of a prophet but if asked I would wax: Remember, we speak best in our native tongue.