It was your birthday. A glorious day, to be true.
You scoff a little and you think to yourself, “glorious? me?”
Yes, glorious, deal with it.
You see, you think you’re weak. But the truth is, it is only the strongest among us that can ever admit to being weak.
Sometimes you feel the fear eat you up. But, in the end, it’s the strong-willed you that defeats it and sends it back to the Naughty corner from whence it came.
It’s not even a mild hyperbole that you have, you have more strength in your tiniest finger than most men who think they Can move mountains.
I look at your girlchild, and I see in her a great will. A will to survive, to succeed and to flourish. I know for a fact she got That from only one place in the world – your heart, your womb from where she grew. Your soul from which she’s learnt.
I thank you for that. In her, I have a great friend, a sister against the world. Who holds my hand and worries with me On dark days. Who skips along and dances with me on sunny ones.
In her, in her I see a love. A love so deep and true, that it can withstand floods and hurricanes.
She can only have learnt that love from you.
You, you her mom. You, her mother. You who dances when she succeeds and you who,
When it all becomes too much, reaches to provide solace.
You who should be celebrated. First by you, then by friends, then by the world at large.
Or whichever way you choose, to be frank.
In truth, a glorious day. We celebrate and we celebrate you.