Dear Daughter
I was thirteen when my body changed. It was New Year’s Eve. As the clock moved closer to striking the time of change, my body shifted too, waxing waning like the moon. So, it was here. I had a paper round. At my time and of the month, my body would bend with the weight of the bag and the pain. This became a part of my routine, as much as the dog that snatched the newspaper angrily from the letter box at the big house where they asked me to knock instead. My body was a mystery to me, yet on that night as the clock climbed, I didn’t mind. I didn’t know that my monthly cycle would hurt so much. I didn’t know either that sometimes in the days before, I would laugh more, I might cry more, the world more vivid. I didn’t know. My thirteenth birthday was on Christmas Eve. I don’t know the exact time of my birth. My birth mother described the early hours of the morning. I wonder if I flew into the world like you did, as if impatient to be alive, to be important. The thought of any kind o