Sitting in their bed, sharing thoughts and sipping Starbucks coffee, their memories resonated, like notes of distant music, thrumming in the artifacts gathered and placed so carefully around the conscious space they shared.
He rolled his hand on rumpled sheets, inviting her touch, and the brown skin of her fingers interlaced with the white skin of his. It was a natural fit. They felt it when they met, so many years ago, determined in love, regardless of the skeptics, the orthodoxy, and the outright anger that confronted them.
They felt it when they met, and they knew it absolutely in that present moment, as their beautiful children lay sleeping, healthy, safe and warm, perfect in their imperfections, insisting in their peaceful repose that love—not tradition nor history nor tribe nor clan nor culture nor theory—but love in all its brilliant promise is the best and true eugenics and the only healthy path for the pilgrimage of humanity.