Birdie does beads

I’ve recommended Birdie before— the author of Beauty Dish : the underground adventures of an Avon Lady. Here’s a recent entry of hers I found, well, breathtaking.

It begins like this:

My birth daughter sent me a small package a couple of weeks ago. I arrived with the regular mail, in a soft rectangular manilla envelope secured with too much tape and stuffed with bubble wrap. My daughter at home collected the package and assorted bills and grocery store circulars and carried them into the house.

“Hey mom! You have a package! Who’s this from?” She handed me the parcel, covered in hand-drawn geometric designs, my name in bold purple block letters, my birth daughter’s name in a yellow flourish on the back. I told her in my first email that my favorite colors were purple and yellow.

My daughter at home didn’t recognize the name, even thought I told her the name of her secret sister, even though I referred to her from time to time when we were driving alone by the beach winding road, through the city to the art house theatre where she watches films, not movies. It’s not real to her yet, I thought, just a name like a person on page two of a new book, not enough action details and smells and purple yellow letters to make her real. Not yet.