Dear Sara Catherine Young I still carry your first kicks in my hands. The vibration rings out, says you are coming, you are coming. She was eighteen and Catholic, far from her family. We were housemates, we were bees; we were butterflies who felt the flutter of you. She kept her promise while we kept watch, fed you both stirfry, saw you grow; let you go. Do you have your mother’s brilliant blue eyes, her surprised expression each time she listened to any question? Do you have children; are you a mother, too? She has children who don’t know you. But we remember. Wherever you are in this world of bells and flowers, you carry the echoes of our voices in bone, and I still bear your first kicks in my hands, Sara, though that’s probably not your name now. The answer to the question you’ve carried all these years is this: You were borne in love. Happy Birthday.