Emmy. Emily. Jones. Amelia.
Many names, one perfect wife. Her birthday is now.
We marked the occasion yesterday by hanging out with friends and today by snagging a free half-dozen donuts from Kalamazoo’s finest donut establishment. There is a cake for later and a couple of candles, too.
Thus begins a brief annual season where we are, numerically speaking, the same age. She is wise and beautiful and lovely and supportive, and I am the guy who was asked by a teenager last week “how many grandkids do you have?” I think this worked out well for me.
But that’s not why we’re here right now. By the way: seven. Seven grandchildren. Har har har har. Etc.
We’re here right now to celebrate my wife on her birthday. The day of her birth. Had she not been born, I would not be married to her. We would not have our wonderful children. So, in a way, her birthday leads to marriage and then several more birthdays. Circle of life, eh? And it all started on this day just a few years ago. I am so thankful for my wife and I want her to have a borderline perfect birthday. Thankfully, the day is young and I have time to think of something else to add to the celebration.
She began her birthday with her sewing kit, mending the Lamby blanket that her Grandmother gave for her 5th birthday. Downright poetic.
And that’s a fitting word to describe her (Emily): Poetic. She is flowing and balanced and expressive, yet full of twists and turns that paint a deep picture of beauty, truth, mystery, and spunk.
Happy birthday, Emmy. I love you very very much.