"Can I tell you something," she asks while I sit on the edge of the bed this morning, rubbing lotion between my toes."Is right aroun' this time you were born," she says, swinging her arms from side to side, childlike, as if embarassed by the rumpled nightgown, the unkept bed head.
"I was born at 8:30?" I ask, glancing at the time on the laptop.
"Well... around quarter past eight," she says, "I was holdin' a pretty little girl."
I smiled softly. How ironic that I was born so early and despise mornings so much.
"OK, I jus' wanted to tell you that," she says, disappearing behind the door and shutting it quietly. "Happy birthday."
Photo "Burning Birthday Candles" courtesy procorbis.com
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