Twelve years old on the twelfth of May. "This is my 'golden birthday,'" my daughter claims, "the one where your age is the same as the day."
Every year, on the twelfth of May, I pause and think of the other mother, the one who gave birth to my daughter. Today I wonder: does she remember that "labor day" twelve years ago? Does she count the years and imagine what her baby looks like today?
Her baby certainly thinks of her. She gazes at a blurry photograph every day and longs to know her original mother, the one I replaced.
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