Happy birthday

I picture her in a squat, stony house on a Portuguese island, stepping up on a stool to grab this bowl or that salt to help her mom cook. Because it’s what my grandmother, the cook, told me about her little helper, my mother. 

I picture her in Puerto Rico on her honeymoon in some swanky hotel restaurant, whipping heads around, my father as a consequence of owning the tallest girthiest crown feeling royal as he ever would. Because I have the picture.  She exemplified beauty.  She did.

I picture her having a conversation with that same guy some years later, saying let’s at least adopt, please please please, can we can we can we? Because she did. 

I picture her lying on the couch sipping and tipsying on amaretto and working on her study plans for the week, 60 Minutes in the background.  Because she did. 

I picture her giving Bs to C students to not hose their GPAs. Because it’s what her former French students told me she did. 

I picture her sitting at the kitchen table, helping a dear homie find the right college for him.  Because she did. 

I picture her doing all of my art projects because I couldn’t draw or paint or assemble a piñata to save my life.  Because she did. 

I picture her wanting nothing more in the world than to be closer to her sister.  Because she did. 

I picture her in the bleachers, yelling, screaming. I could hear hers above the roar and the din of everyone else’s. 

I picture her turning 81 today. I really wish she did.