I was born on the day my parents were married.
My mother wore a navy blue dress, and held
a little white posy.
My father wore a suit.
They took photos against the red brick of
my grandparents’ back wall.
Only the Monaghans and the celebrant attended,
my mother’s family live in India.
And I don’t think they could fit
any of dad’s friends.
It’s a pretty small garden.
After lunch,
the water broke.
And they rode to the nearby maternity hospital:
King Edward’s.
I imagine, anyway,
no one has ever really told me.
My parent’s are divorced –
not amicably –
so the day of their wedding is
no ones’ favourite topic.
I knew it wasn’t my fault,
no one had to tell me,
though they did.
But sometimes I pretended
that I thought it was,
because it was a neat narrative,
and because it made more sense
than my other feelings.
“If I hadn’t been born that day!”
I had just to say something like this
and my nonna
would tuck me in
and make me a milo.
Easy sympathy.
My mother did not have
sympathy for me
or anyone.
She was busy
feeling so sad
and angry.
Busy crying.
Busy feeling
violent.
My dad was busy
learning how to cook.
He learnt chicken pasta.
Which is pasta
And boiled chicken.
Gross.
But we ate it.
I used to know
that it wasn’t my fault,
but I am older now,
and I know that it was,
at least incidentally.
I was born on the day that my parents were married.
If I had not been conceived,
I doubt an Australian man
would have flown
an Indian Tibetan woman of twenty-two
away from her family
and her life.
She was the baby.
She has never grown up.
I am a grown up.
I can accept it.
Words by Pema Monaghan, Art by Marney Anderson (@botticellibitch)
This poem first appeared in print volume 88 edition 4 GIRL