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March 26, 2012

Cigarette in hand I imagine my mother fretting about her size wondering what and who I was after  a snack of spiced applies and french bread-her admitted craving.

I have no taste for those things now except for bread but who doesn’t love bread? While pregnant with our daughter I ate a ton of ice cream and pizza toward the end and those are her favorite foods.

I know I resembled a pickle, a gherkin in fact while wearing my dark green terry cloth onesie. Nickle Pickle was my name. My dark hair turned to blond ringlets. Walking and talking before a year. “wanna cookie ma” was my first sentence. Once I ate a cheese sandwich off my foot as it had flattened under it in my playpen while the adults went water skiing. I didn’t like Hamburger Helper and thought it tasted like dog food. I had a parakeet I wanted to name Big Bird but I wasn’t allowed.

So many random memories feel like a person I am not acquainted with. Years go by and I stack them like firewood, building a pyre to keep me warm, shed light on what is mysterious and sustain me through the dark. They burn bright for a while but are just ashes, sooty and fly away like dust.

I gather those years, creeping closer to the age where you left and I was alone. Desperate for my children, thirsty and parched for their smell, kisses, arms around my neck I pack that away, counting my winnings.

So, happy almost birthday to me, happy no more birthday to you.

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