“My daughter’s birthday is coming up soon,” I say, fussing with the button on the blouse I’m holding.  It’s a pretty colour, a vibrant sort of rose that seems inspired by the deep violet hues that have dominated the past season.

She nods.  She has ashen blonde hair with hints of gray at the roots, cut short and distinguished.  She used to be a teacher and she still looks like your favourite one, the one who brooks no nonsense but notices, appreciates, and encourages every effort you make to succeed.  We clicked with one another instantly.  “Your…. Maia” — she always hesitates before saying Maia, as if worried she’ll get it wrong — “she’ll be a year old?”

“Yep.  It’s gone by so quickly.”  I always feel sheepish saying this; I read a quote once that for a mom, the days are long but the years are short, and it resonated with me.

“It gets faster,” she replies, and there’s an unexpected sorrow in her voice. Looking at her, I suddenly see every smile line that creases her eyes and mouth; her face tells the story of decades of joy.  She’s seen many birthdays, from her children and her grandchildren, and I wonder where the sadness comes from.

Is she thinking of a deceased loved one?  Does she miss her family?  Is she reminded of her own mortality when she looks at me, twenty seven and unwrinkled, exulting in my only child’s first birthday?

Or is she just a mother who, despite her pride in her adult children, laments the swift passage of time?