I am 1. I am lying on my back on a bed in my basement, staring at the stucco ceiling. A diaper is being changed. I have to assume it is my own. My sister, who has been alive slightly longer than me, is laughing as she attempts to replace the disposable underwear. My mother oversees the task as she considers the time we spend together, late at night and early in the morning, on the crimson corduroy recliner in the living room upstairs. A Picasso print is on the wall opposite the window. Birds dance in unison to form a circle, and an unfinished flower sprouts from the middle. The sun manoeuvres its light but still cannot make its way inside. My cousins are playing in the yard, navigating the multi-purpose field with no purpose. A quilt made by my grandmother is folded neatly at my feet. It is not yet necessary to consider what I am doing here. It might never be.

August 1 – Coolio gets a baby’s first memory
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