Today is my eldest sister’s sixty-fifth birthday, and I can only call down south to wish her well. Ten years ago they fled New England cold and taxes, large yards to mow and keeping up with neighbors. Floridians prefer a level playing field, and cluster in their homes in groups of age and retirement income that determines outdoor gardenia trees and limes.
I wish that I could touch her now, as I once reached out to her when I was eight. She was seventeen and like an angel, dressed in mom-designed and sewn pink satin gown. She married the man who took her to the prom that night, and he was handsome, tall and skinny, though he’s handsome yet. And she, despite the distance of the heavens and the land, is proud and strong and caring, like an angel still.
Happy birthday, E.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
All the very best wishes to The Angel.