On the day I was born, fireworks sketched the sky as my mother came back to her room, the bands of sleep that held her from the pain of this last delivery releasing her to see the shooting lights celebrating her new life as a mother of five.

I would have been somewhere close, bundled and bewildered, newly near this overwhelming world of bright lights in big skies. I like to believe something in me knew, even then, my place in the turning earth, that every day blending forward would bring me into new blossoming, fantastical shows of light, sound, and the silent littering of fire falling from a sky.

Each year, on the day I was born, I celebrate; the year behind me swaddled and secure in its ending, watching the blooming of new life from the inside of a glass window, releasing every pain of what has been born, just like my mother did, all those years ago.

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