Saturday, January 31, 2009 Today, you are sixty-five. Happy, happy birthday baby. May you have a hundred more.
You have beat the odds that have claimed the women of our mother's family for generations. You have breezed past the dreaded sixty-three, the oldest any woman in our mother's line has reached in over two generations. You have steadfastly claimed that you have decided to be more like the women of our father's family, reaching the eighties or nineties. Still carrying water to the animals---through the snow---uphill---both ways---in high heels---past bears---well, you get it. You got a helluva start on it, girl.
I remember sharing a bed with you when I was three, four, and five, and you were in high school, in a mobile home too small and cold for out family. You left our bed to go to your husband's at seventeen. I don't blame you. I wanted a way out, too. But I missed you there so much. You kept me warm, you kept me safe, you makd me less afraid of our parent's loud arguments.
You meant a lot to me then, you mean a lot to me now. I am glad you are a part of my life.
Happy birthday, Perry Lee! San Francisco is missing us! Slainte!
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