This day

This day I chose. I chose to come to the party. To celebrate the first year of a beautiful little person.

This day I chose. This day I chose to unlock my bike. To strap my wriggly infant in a seat. To fear every car, every junction, every sudden stop. This day I chose to feel the wind in my hair, to expose my child to the elements, to let the sun beat upon our arms. This day I chose to work my legs, my arms, my muscles.

This day I chose. To only bring food that would fit in my backpack. To ask the cashier to refill my water bottle. To pass you my unwanted books.

This day I chose. To stand waiting at the platform with the others. To hear the chug, chug, chug of the wheels beneath my feet. To soothe my fractious babe whilst you watch me at the end of the carriage.

This day I chose to travel an hour thirty for a journey of sixteen miles. To celebrate at the party.

This day you asked. Does anybody fancy swimming. I said yes, me. Is anybody going my way.

She said yes, yes me.

You said, aren't there any buses. Are you really going that way. How much will it add to your journey.

You said, she's inconvenient. You said, don't choose her.

This day I chose. I chose for my babe. I chose for yours. You may not see my choice. It's still mine.

You may not see my choice. It is still mine.