It was circled in pink ink, this specific June date. Pink to signify a celebration-an indication of life given-though no reminder was really necessary. She was aware of the date, as she had been the previous year, and the year before that, and the 17 years before that.

Over the years, she had developed a ritual. As soon as the monthly calendar was turned, she began increasing her time spent in the greeting card aisles of a myriad of local merchants. She scoured Hallmark cards, American Greeting cards, even Shoebox cards, in a futile search for the one containing the perfect sentiment. It had been so much easier for her when the girl was 3, and 8, and then 13.

She picked up many cards that caught her eye, especially those with the impressively colored embellishments. The poems were always thoughtful, though rather generic, and thus the pretty cards were replaced. She tried to stay away from the relationship specific cards, but she was always drawn to that section. It was the love that threatened to overwhelm, more than biology, that allowed her to consider the special cards. And while the sentiments were more accurate, ultimately she did not feel she was deserving of the defined relationship. Years before she had willingly, and legally, relinquished that right.

She always departed the stores feeling increasingly saddened. She desperately wanted the girl, now a young lady, to know she was thought of on this pink-inked day. Once again, the perfect card was not discovered. And, for yet another year, the mailbox remained empty. For many nights following the circled date, she would escape to a quiet corner and allow the tears their freedom. She felt an absolute failure; she abhorred being the cause of possible disappointment.

Recognizing the importance of shattering the defeating routine, she recently visited the stationery aisle of a well-known department store. She felt a smile playing at her lips with the self-scanning of the items she selected. Hope was blooming.