I was born tomorrow.
Technically, forty-five years ago tomorrow, but I’m not a stickler for details.
I was born right into the lives of my parents. They were stupid in love with one another and I came into a world of cable cars, yellow, and motor oil.
I tend to romanticize this time. The drive over the bridge, the first few moments, weeks, and pine trees with my parents seem somehow bookmarked in my story.
My mom and my dad. Chosen for me by the universe, we will be forever bonded by that day, the day I came to be.
People often say it doesn’t matter how a person comes into the world. I believe that in principal. We are all responsible for our experience regardless of circumstance.
But, tomorrow is my day so I’m feeling things differently. The people that welcomed me into their life have a lot to do with who I am.
My hair is thick and wavy. I like getting dirty, a racing heart, and I have a cutting sense of humor. That’s my dad.
I burn after ten minutes in the sun. I love deep and hurt easy. I fold towels the right way and hold my head high. That’s my mom.
It is what a person does with her life that matters most. Parents do not define a life, but something in them, parts of their story stay tucked away in their child.
I am the sum of my years of bumps, bruises, laughs, slow Sundays, tears and scratchy eyes. My joy is my doing. I know that. And yet, it has been a while since I have strolled down the street of my parents’ love story.
My mother lost babies before me, so I was a rainbow after too much rain. My father cried and that was probably one of the few times he’d allowed feeling into his world. I was important to them, their only.
I will be thinking about that, about their apartment and our start together, tomorrow.
The rest of it, the what happened after, the details, can wait for another day.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Lullaby.