Happy Home

I imagine,

I was an adequate early birthday present,

to my mother.

Materialising,

entering the air,

with a solo scream,

I became a socialite.

Infant it girl,

the name on so many lips,

the day that I debuted,

inside so many arms,

I stared into so many faces,

amazed,

that they are so amazed.

As I grow,

I go from object of awe,

to disappointment,

and back again,

but I am always forgiven.

I am always fortunate,

birthday,

or not,

by the gifts that she gives me.

My mother is a map,

that I have unknowingly navigated,

for every day,

since my debut.

I see similar pictures,

growing stronger

in the glass of my bathroom mirror.