Yesterday, I turned seventy-one. Hoopty doo. The amazing thing is I don't look a day over seventy. I'm such a babe. White hair. Turkey neck. Liver spots. Cankles. Aphasic.
My sisters gave me adult diapers and a red blanket to replace the one I left at the side of the road in Parley's Canyon. If you find it, don't look inside.
Tom made me waffles topped with peaches and whipped cream for breakfast in bed and a cup of flowers.
Rian came down and ate lunch with us in Soda Row. We snickered our way through it. The three of us went to Barnes and Nobles where I bought a stack of birthday books. Rian looked for poetry books. Barnes and Nobles has a woeful collection of poetry--like a shelf in the ladies' room.
We went to art class where I realized that I was beginning to like water coloring. It's been almost two years, and I'm just beginning to understand the paint. This is so satisfying.
Five year old Louis was on the message machine singing me Happy Birthday. I'd like to bottle that voice.
A good birthday. Almost forgot I was hurtling toward death. Almost.