8.4.76

Today is my birthday.
Thirty two years ago today, my mother birthed her first child: a daughter.
In the delivery room, a nearly- seven pound baby girl emerged.
It's a girl, the doctor cried.
And so did I.
I am so jealous of my mother, I envy her, for having me. This is a strange feeling.

When Charlotte died, she laid her head down on the bed beside me and cried.
I wish it could be me, she cried, I wish I could take this away from you. It's not fair. I got to have you and you need your little girl, too.

And I do.

Five years ago today we had her cottage memorial. About thirty people came. We showed pictures, read words to them, to try to make her real. Today I wore my shirt proudly : Charlotte's mama, in case anyone forgot.

It is hard to imagine anyone would, but sometimes people forget the things they don't want to remember.