Happy 50th birthday, Ingrid.
I want to be on the phone with you right now, making some very bad joke about how old you are, about how you're in your fifties, for crying out loud, while I am still a young and supple 40something.
And, of course, as always, I want to remind you that you will always be older than I. Damn, but I still want that to be very, very true.
Instead, this is the year we catch up to each other, the year we are both 48.
I hope that you are fat and happy on cake, Ingrid, and that your only worry is which of your thousand favorite bike rides to take. Because in heaven, you get to have more than one favorite.
Happy birthday. I miss you.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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