When I had a daughter,
I only had her for four days.
She wasn’t really mine, just “on loan” from my sister.
We went on a trip, her and I
and walked arm in arm down streets that weren’t our own.
And even though she wasn’t “mine”,
while I had her I pretended she was my own.
Now I’ve never had a strong urge to procreate, admittedly for purely selfish reasons. I found the potential mess,
and the unavoidable cost
and the *gulp* ultimate responsibility overwhelming to consider
and throughout the years being an “auntie” created just the right amount of opportunity to satisfy whatever miniscule amount of motherly instinct
existing in my cells.
this week when people asked “how old is your daughter?” I didn’t correct them,
and I felt a wonderful warm flutter in my heart that they had made the mistake.
My niece is tall and beautiful and smart and I was honoured that someone had thought
was responsible for her existence.
And it made me a little sad when we returned home and I had to return her to her mother,
and go back to my home
that extra heartbeat that had been keeping me company all week.