Somehow I can’t imagine what it’d be like; what you’d be like, if you got the chance to turn fifty six. Whether your worry lines would increase, whether you’d start complaining about reaching that age for menopause, whether your well of style and youth would ever run dry; stuff like that.
See I only wonder about the other mindless stuff I wouldn’t know because I already know what most of your self would be like if you turned fifty six. I still imagine you’d be as beautiful as I remember you to be, even if it was when you had no hair or was bedridden because your smile – no matter how faint and weary it may be – and the sounds of your laughter, still resonate and light up in my threads of memory.
Happy birthday, Ma.
You’re still living, in me.