The babies crawled above the clouds and gathered in His auction house. The Father stood before them to hold one of many meetings on this heavenly day. Every day was a heavenly day in His house. Every day was a heavenly day for these babies as they made a choice that will determine their entire lives, literally. Every day was a heavenly day, except for Baby #16.

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          “Ask and you shall receive, my children.” God roared and the babies wailed with excitement. All except for #16. “Now let me remind you of the rules. For each mother in the show today, the baby with the loudest cry will win their ticket and be carried off to my precious Earth. Shall we begin?” The babies answered with a collective coo and the auction commenced.

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          In the first hour, the Father presented yet another daughter of nepotism – relevant by association. She is cheddar cut from brie that lives upon the ritz. Her life is one of tinselled affairs, flashing cameras along the red road, never a hair – no an eyelash – out of place. Her house is big enough for two. It’s big enough for all the babies above the clouds. She is a gateway to a life of ignorant bliss. And so the cries began, each new voice competing with the last. She could not be my mother, oh no. For she has so much yet still wants more. For she has too much and earned none of it. Who am I to be another accessory? To live in her shadow, a ghost tethered to her notoriety? Oh no, I won’t have her, I won’t.

         

          “SOLD!” the Father boomed. To his left, #16 watched the stork soar, diving down to whisk the winner away. #16 crooned, unbothered and unimpressed.

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          In the sixth hour, the Father presented a woman of wealth. If her body is the night sky, it’s never without its stars. And her milk tastes of the finest nectar, sweeter than honey, sweeter than love. It tastes of pride. Once a woman of humble beginnings, of sleepless nights, and dreadful days – now living this new life, tired of chewing on the bitter zest of struggle. She could not be my mother, oh no. For she has conquered the world and would expect the world of me. For I do not wish to know the nipping sting of unmount expectations. Who am I to only see the face of other mothers paid to act as mine? To live a life with nothing but her critical glare? Oh no, I won’t have her, I won’t. And the cries began again.

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          “SOLD!” the Father boomed. To his right, #16 watched the stork soar, diving down to whisk the next winner away. #16 hummed, armored and astute.

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          In the eighteenth hour, the Father presented a free spirit. She does not care for money or fame or glory. Her days are spent amongst the trees, bathing in the delicate glow of the daylight. She is free. But she is the only thing. Her paintings barely sell and her cabinets are rarely stocked. Yet she continues to chase excitement at the expense of reality. She could not be my mother, oh no. For she will die in this fantasy she’s conjured in the forest. For she will stop me from rising in that cruel, cruel, cruel…world. Who am I to live in that delusion with her? To volunteer for a life of uncertainty and disarray? Oh no, I won’t have her, I won’t. The cries enveloped him, sounding from every direction.

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          “SOLD!” the Father boomed. Just behind him, #16 watched the stork soar, diving down to whisk the winner away. #16 whimpered, feeble and frightened.

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          At last, the final hour arrived. #16 started crawling for the door to leave the auction early like he did each day. Defeated, he quickened his pace eager to feel the pillowed fluff of familiar clouds and the warmth of the beaming sun. He raced to the door, running from the unknown: a world plagued with puzzles and punishment.

 

          “Oh?” God questioned and the babies faced him with concern. “It appears we have a familiar face on the list today, my children.” They all knew what that meant. All except for #16. God presented a desperate woman, desperate for one wish, to be a better mother than her own. She did not have much, but she did not need much. If all she had was a slice of bread she would break that bread one million times before taking her first bite. All she had was everything she would give. But for her lack of fortune and fantasia, none of the babies ever cried out for her. So every few months, while #16 lay solemn amongst the clouds, His house goes quiet for just a while. They did not want her. None except for #16. That is to be my mother. He could not explain nor define the feeling that overcame him but from his mouth poured a deafening cry. A cry that pierced his Father’s heart. A cry that did not stop, not when the stork whisked him away, not when he entered her womb, not when he kicked at her core begging to meet her. Not when he slid through the walls of her womanhood, blinded by the hospital lights. Not when the first words to reach his ears in this cruel, cruel world were

 

          “Time of Death: 16:00. Cause of Death: Childbirth.”