Love and Routine

It is nearing my birthday and I miss home. Miss reminding my family every day for a month in advance of June 12 - a day I've always felt should be a nationally recognized holiday. My birthday is always a fun time. I have a family that bakes a cake without icing, and wraps my presents in whatever paper and/or plastic items they find around the house. We play outside, or maybe play a game indoors if the summer's humidity is too great.

I will be home in a few days for the celebration. I have asked my mother to make me roast beef and gravy and her one-of-a-kind homemade mac 'n cheese. My sister usually bakes the yellow cake. My dad will have the yard mowed down tight for an afternoon of croquet. We will laugh all day and will sigh big deep happy sighs as the sun finally sets over the back woods. We will eat strawberry pie and my brother will be so full that he will drag himself over to the couch to lie on his belly until his eyes pop back into their sockets. My fiance will be there, envious of all of my birthday presents. Knowing our time together is short, he will stay within earshot of my big bold laugh; the laugh that used to get me in trouble at church.

Today I received a card from my mother. I figured it to be a Happy Birthday card. I couldn't wait til I got to the train, so I weaved down the sidewalk as I concentrated on tearing open the yellow envelope. It wasn't a birthday card at all. Just another I love you card. A We can't wait to see you card. An I'm so proud that you're my daughter card. She didn't seal all of the edges tight as Fort Knox with American Flag stickers like my dad always does, but she sealed it with kisses, I'm sure.

I was given the best birthday gift ever in my first minute of life. The gift of being a Whitaker.