The Artist's Daughter

This morning I could hear the seven-year-old birthday girl before I could see her. She was somewhere to my left, over there, that way, whispering to her artist mother. I was too busy pushing my way out of a dream about border controls to remember her birthday. But as the remains of my sleep fell to the floor, a gust told me this was no seven-year-old: this person was eight now. 'Happy birthday,' I said, rolling over and squeezing her. 'Happy birthday,' said her mother, on the other side. She looked taller than she did yesterday, her eyes looked that little bit wiser, and the distance between now and the morning I watched her being born grew life-affirmingly longer. I've since seen her feature just as much in the artist's work as down the corridors of life. I know she knows the artist as well as anyone on the planet. She can read the mood like a shepherdess reads the sky, and her appreciation of art suffers only because it is cheerfully stalwart and well informed. One major art gallery in the capital is as familiar to her as a close family friend. Before she could even speak she was accompanied by the artist through snow, wind and rain to see or make art. She has watched the artist work through pain while strapped like a koala to the artist's breast. She has woken up finding the artist next to her drawing her. She has wanted to go outside but couldn't because the artist has been working. She has put a little arm round the artist at times of low self-esteem. She is exactly how an artist's daughter would be - heaven forbid - if you chose one. And today - yes, today - is her birthday. Happy birthday. Don't cringe too much if you ever read this. And may your wishes all come true.