The Cambridge Chronicles

Do you remember it, my birth?

Yes, she says.

Dropped out into a bucket, a top was placed on it, and it was necessary for me to kick my way out of it?

Why, yes, she assures me.

A normal, fairly easy delivery. My sister, 2+ years later, was not expected by the doctors. Mom says she's coming out. Doctor says no. Baby said yes. An older sister was there to keep the baby from falling off the birthing bed.

Its the bad son, is my first remark when she gets on the line. Immediately, she says, oh, its Richard. Of course. The baddest of the bad. That would be me.

Her being my mother is not a part of my memory. Too long ago. They slap you on exiting and tell you its not something you want to remember. That's right, she agrees. She assures me, yet again, of being my mother.

How can a person understand that? How can a person understand that your existing, your being, came from the body of your mother? How can anyone ever understand that? How can anyone understand the long chain, the long line of mothers, that produced you/me? You can see it happen when you get older. But you can't understand, you can't realize what that means for yourself. You only know that, like everyone else, you came from someone. That woman you call your mother. There will never be, in the history of the world another person like that. That will never happen again. There can never be another person who is that person. She will be the only one who ever exists as that person. Your mother.