My mother, Ann, would have been sixty-four today.
Because her birthday fell so close to St. Patrick's Day, and she was from an Irish family, as a child I just assumed that people were wearing green in her honor. (Her maiden name was Kelly, after all)
I remember being shocked four years ago that someone who seemed so young had suddenly arrived at one of "the big birthdays." I didn't make a huge fuss, because I knew that she wasn't keen on hitting the "advanced" age of sixty. I sent her flowers and a card, and I gave her call, during which we agreed not to mention the actual number of candles on the cake she wasn't having.
Of course, sixty now seems impossibly young, because she never made it to sixty-one.
I love the impish glint this photo captures. It reminds me so much of my nephew, Gavin, who always has some wicked little trick up his sleeve. For example, until nearly age five, he told everyone he met--child or adult--that his name was "Bubble." We never knew why he did it, but the satisfied look on his face told us that he had his own reasons.
It's funny--my mom was many things, but "impish" really wouldn't make the list of her character traits. Somehow, though, this picture gives me a feeling that Gavin may have inherited his quirky personality from Nana. Call it the recessive "wicked gleam gene."
Seems reasonable to me. He inherited the same spray of freckles across his nose, too.