It was funny that she would be born in January.

When the Frostbitten fingers of British Winters outstretched themselves hoping to grasp a springtime that we won't whine about. It's funny that our sunshine was born in winter.

It's funny that I once slept inside her.

How at one point, everything that was me was just as much you.
It's funny how even today that still holds true.
It's funny that I can't love someone without thinking about what you do.

I've opened my arms to labours and abuses because in love you have to try. Or at least that's what she did.

It's funny that someone who's been through three marriages is still my best image of what love looks like.

Cracked skin, tired eyes, minced words with hope and struggle more times than I know. But no regrets.

It's funny that she acts like we were all meant to be, like the breaths we've breathed we're always an eventuality, like we weren't all the longest labour in her entire history. Like the whole universe crashing down on one woman didn't stop her raising a family.

It's funny that we act as though we have one day a year to celebrate her.

As if not a day goes by that our still beating hearts don't sing the song of an angel with no feathers.