Happy Birthday, Pal

Happy birthday, Ingrid. You should be 55 right now, and taking a call from me about how old you are. You should be laughing, biking, eating cake, petting cats, playing the accordion, working, talking to your mom on the phone, making plans for a trip to Idaho or Europe or Carmel, wondering if you've got enough coffee (as if!), making a joke, making love, making a life.

You should be here, with us, celebrating. I guess we have to do that for you, now. So here it is:

You were irreplaceable, though I didn't always know that because I am sometimes a stupid human. The space you left will always be empty. And it will always be full, too. Of memories.

Happy birthday, old girl. I hope that whatever is next includes cake, lots of cake.

Love, Caren