(no subject)
It's Emily's twelfth birthday. I bought her season seven of The X-Files, which she loves as much as I do, and at four in the morning sneaked around the apartment printing out custom wrapping and manipulating the starchy paper and Scotch tape pieces balanced on my fingertips. The job I did was efficient, neat, and perfect-even by my anal-retentive standards.
But the very best part was the way she sat down to it at the kitchen table and squealed at the ink-jet images only to scream "Oh, my freakin' God!" over and over when she finally exposed the box set. Hugs given/received, inside jokes exchanged, gleeful dances danced on the linoleum.
We are sisters. We bicker, we drive each other up the walls, but we also love each other very much. We are best friends. And her all-lit-up face from this morning reminds me why I am still here.
Happy birthday, babe. The world is your oyster. (Now stop saying queers, I mean it.)
But the very best part was the way she sat down to it at the kitchen table and squealed at the ink-jet images only to scream "Oh, my freakin' God!" over and over when she finally exposed the box set. Hugs given/received, inside jokes exchanged, gleeful dances danced on the linoleum.
We are sisters. We bicker, we drive each other up the walls, but we also love each other very much. We are best friends. And her all-lit-up face from this morning reminds me why I am still here.
Happy birthday, babe. The world is your oyster. (Now stop saying queers, I mean it.)