Why are you wearing stockings with holes in them?

In the photo, the baby lies in her arms, swaddled against the unknown perils of the world she's just entered. Her soft newborn head is swollen with a bump and one of her hazy blue eyes was half-shut and bruised. Her little mouth is pursed in distaste and she is bright red with the shock of birth, her complexion resembling that of a boiled monkey, the skin fiery red and inflamed. Welcome to the world, little one, the angels croon. Even the grainy print of the 90's film manage to capture the unique expression of love, shock, disbelief, fear, amazement, accomplishment on the face of her holder. First child and she's here stamping, along the path, leaving behind dusty gold footprints.

Years later, her face scrunched and turned purple within seconds, eyes swelling with tears that are already shut tight with pain. Never the attractive crier, she lies howling in the red dirt, her high-pitched screech elongating the name of the person that she needed, the only one who could bring solace to her devastation and rage at having fallen from the flying fox into the pit beneath when her fat little fingers could hold on no more.

Her sobs shortened to gasps and her hands smeared dirt, snot and tears all over her disgruntled face as the cool and calm hands dabbed at the blood on her knees. She sat with her party shoes leaving marks on the newly-installed bathroom cabinet, relaying the trauma of the incident to the sympathetic ears that half-listened while trying to extract the gravel from shredded knees. She was panicked with the thought of the four candles being blown without her, the candles that studded the birthday cake she'd selected months before from the dog-eared recipe book. The calm voice of reassurance grew tired of her pitiful wails, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her back to the party, holding a tissue for her to blow her nose and lighting the candles of the cake shaped like a clock.

The nest is built in a place that you can't jump from easily, especially in bare feet, as you're bound to get that sharp shooting pain grab you by both ankles and cripples you for a second. Don't try and jump, it's a swooping motion, but you have to do it quickly. No use hopping along the branch. She'd always had one foot outside, itching to fly away sooner than her wings were grown. At the bottom of the tree there were screens with times and destinations, and sterile polished floors. So, with a gentle push, a lingering hug laced with a little bit of hope of lasting longer, there she went.