Twenty-seven years ago, a redheaded woman rocks her daughter to sleep. The daughter, only two months into her little life outside of the womb, has peach fuzz for hair, and blue eyes like her father. The redheaded mother sings all of the songs that her mother has taught her, the same songs that her mother's mother probably taught her. The redheaded mother is twenty-seven years-old. Soon, she will have to go back to work full-time. But she will always be there at night to rock her daughter to sleep, humming the classic lullabyes that her daughter will remember for a lifetime.
Twenty-seven years later, a redheaded mother visits her daughter. The daughter is expecting her first child in two months. The daughter is twenty-seven years-old. She causes her mother to recall that time, twenty-seven years ago, when she herself was a new mother, the mother of "the most beautiful baby" with the porcelain skin and the easy smile; the little peanut that would begin to walk and cause people to wonder how an infant just picked herself up to hobble around, since the little peanut was still so tiny and bald.
My mother is her mother's firstborn. I am my mother's firstborn. Twenty-seven years separates my mother and me. Twenty-seven years will separate me and my child, my firstborn.