It’s 6am on Monday morning and no matter how hard I try to make myself think in metaphors it simply isn’t working. Two sips of coffee later I am sitting at my desk feeling the early morning cool wash over my half asleep skin and the sense that it should all start with her is clear.
One of the few childhood memories that I cling to is that of the moment when I first found out that my youngest sister was on the way. I was playing in what is remembered as the lush green backyard of the Union Street house and my mother came to me and announced that she would be having a baby.
If my calculations are correct I was six years old, steadily making my way towards seven. My mother with her cropped dark hair and deep blue dress had surely consulted time while dressing for the memory as she fits into this preserved memory perfectly.
I cannot remember her exact words, the exact date or even the events directly preceding and following the moment. Rightly so. To me Stephanie’s first impression will always be one that is bathed is brilliant shades of blue and green, highlighted by late afternoon sunlight and finished off with the knowledge that somewhere during the conversation my mother’s words would have danced out through a smile.
Twenty two years later I am sitting in a Berlin apartment, listening to the surprisingly full early morning silence and looking out over a garden that could set the stage for memories just like this one. My heart reaches from this hidden corner in Europe’s left ventricle to the tip of Africa where this beautiful being, who is so much part of me and yet a wonder all her own, now finds herself. She reaches back with an open hand, full of our shared childhood. Our eyes meet like mirrors seeing, knowing and reflecting the other.