60 is the new 60.
Tomorrow. February 6, 1963.
My parents with Christopher, my older brother. The adoration in their faces. So in love. It was the same with me.
My father getting off his motorcycle after working a shift at Union Carbide in Welland — May or June 1962. My mom waiting with a bad case of baby fever. At 60, there's nothing gross about knowing a good time was had. The story's a gift my dad left me.
today I want to remember my parents. My father used to say, "The only time I feel old is when you have a birthday."
(I still have that chin.)
What follows is cliché.
Anything that broke me into pieces (with some exceptions).
What I've had to put back together, clean up, or abandon.
Life's fine print. And the agree button.
What I'm most grateful for.
And the love and help that made it possible.
The no-end work of existence.
I hope I've told you enough about how grateful I am you're here, reading this.
I am not a coal miner's daughter. But as soon as I heard Loretta Lynn's voice, I knew she was it. In the Grand Ole Opry performance, she looks like an angel. I love the sound of a banjo so much.
© Deborah Reid, 2021 - 2023. All Rights Reserved.