My sister turns 60 years old today. I wish her the happiest birthday ever, and I couldn’t be happier about this special day. I realize she'll always be four years younger than I am, but it makes me feel better to know she's at least rolled over into the same decade.
Actually, "rolled over" is probably a poor choice of words. More than likely, she has glided gracefully across the line between 59 and 60. I used to think she'd go kicking and screaming across that line, but I didn’t give her enough credit. The years have been kind to her. She's young enough in heart, mind and body that she needn't worry about numbers.
If you've been reading this blog for a while, you've met my sister before, and you know how much she means to me. She's commented here, too, occasionally, first under our uncle's nickname for her:
and then under a screen name I suggested because I thought it suited her so much better:
Any resemblance to the “Fatty Grubbs” picture is long gone, but if I were to show you a photo of my sister today, you could still see plenty of “Splendorella” in her face.
Happy birthday, Sis, and welcome to a decade I think you'll find enjoyable. The calendar might declare you officially old, but everyone who knows you knows it isn’t true. You’re youthful and beautiful, inside and out, and I love you more than ever.