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.
