This year has already been a tectonic shift, the marker for when my status changed. I am still daughter and I am still mother, but the balance has perhaps moved to favor the latter.
My grandmother passed away on Trevor's birthday, her last breath on the day he added a year. My mother's mother abdicated her earthly role; and where did that leave me? In my mother's shoes? I'm never sure I can fill them, walk around in them. They are hers, and she wears them so well.
In one journey I said goodbye, and I also traveled home to say hello to the pieces of my childhood that still exist. I know them, but they do not recognize me. I can find them tucked inside myself and I am comfortable; but they cannot speak to me. Maybe they don't like how tall I am now that I wear my mother's shoes.
Aren't we all drawn of circles? We are beginnings and ends, looped into ever-changing shapes. If you draw lines around me instead, I will outgrow them. On the same day someone takes their last breath, I will add another year.
I will always be a woman, made from a little girl, trying on new pairs of shoes.