Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Oh! The peculiar passing of time.
It rained on the day you were born, and it rained each September 25th afterwards. There is a tenderness in this rain that is grayer and more lovely than any other rain throughout the year. The rain sometimes stays for days, and this is not a mistake, or a bad omen. It is a sweet blessing filled with a holy and magnetic influence to remind your mama how all the sadness in her world was washed away when I first met you. The rain means hope.
On the eve of your birthday, your dada and I blew up what seemed like thousands of big white balloons-- filled the room with them, in fact. You woke in the morning and shout-whispered,"Mama, wake up! There's balloons everywhere!".
We took you to Waffle House in your purple ballet leotard and your silver tiara, where you told all of the sweet waitresses that it was your birthday. They fell in love with you and put mountains of whipped cream on top of your chocolate chip waffle. I put your hair in rag curlers that night so you could look just like your favorite little girl, Shirley Temple.
The next day was your party. You have been talking about it for six months, about the dress you would wear, the presents you would get, and how all of your friends would come, listing their names one by one. They did come, and we all gathered inside the house, away from the rain, to celebrate you.