Fifteen

Happy birthday, Vivian.

You hang flowers from your ceiling by their toes. You keep us on our toes. Every day I learn to see the world through your eyes – sometimes reluctantly, usually slowly, but always in a fascinating new ways. When you were little you wanted a quinceañera at 15. You wanted a party and a poofy dress. Things change, fortunately. Boy, do they change. Last month your hair was blue. Then black. Then short. Then buzzed. Then buzzed and blond and blue. And here you are, asleep on the flight to San Francisco, looking like an alien assassin (that took me three attempts to type – I hadn’t realized that you’ve got to write ass twice to spell assassin).

Looking at you makes me happy. Thank you for that. Wish you a very happy birthday, our dear first born whatever : -)

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