Birthdays make me think about time, more than anything else. But yesterday was so densely packed with celebration, that it was bedtime before I gave any thought at all to that moment, twelve years ago, when I met Mary. She was soft and small and scwunched. And now, she's nearly as tall as I am. She wants to paint her bedroom green, loves strong female characters, talks with her hands, savours the ironic, is empathetic, and loyal, and tough. I suppose it's easy, to spend too much time baking cakes and wrapping gifts and not enough memorising her--picking her brain, and studying her face.
Doesn't seem like twelve years have gone by, but I also don't remember a time when I didn't know her.
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