Dear Daughter
How do you spend your days? I often wonder this. You, who I knew so well, whose precious smell I breathe in each days for eight golden years, are now a mystery to me. Across water, in another country, your body changes, the bones of your face knit together in new and splendid ways. Who are you now? You are always you of course. Are we born with our own esence? I believe so and thus I know that although you change and grow, you are always you and in this way you are always known to me. ‘Why did I choose you to be Mummy?’ you once asked, perhaps age three, bent against me in the liquid moments of slowness before sleep. You were afraid to fall asleep alone and would often want me there to hold your hand as you fell into the unknown, the land of dreams. You held onto me, as though I might catch you if you should fall. I read you fairytales. I love them still. I sew small creatures in their memory and in memory of the time together we knew once. I love Cinderella most...