A long, long time ago, so long ago I can barely remember, a baby was born. She was kind of cute, at least for the first few months, but then she got bigger. She slept in my room, and she used my toys, and she got me in trouble. I did not care for this. But she also snuggled with me when I had bad dreams. When she went to the doctor’s she always asked for two lollipops, one for herself and one to share. And at night, when she couldn’t sleep, she asked me to tell her stories. There were three windows in our bedroom, and I’d make up a story for each one, and then tell her to pick. No matter which window she chose, the story always started the same way: “Once upon a time, way up on the moon, there lived a little girl who looked just like you.”
That little girl, who yelled so often and got me in so much trouble, is all grown up now. She actually turned out pretty well. She doesn’t bring me lollipops anymore, but she’s pretty generous with her clothes. She’s also a good mom and aunt. But I’ll always remember that she heard and loved my very first stories, way before anyone else was interested. Today I tell those same stories to my children, and because she liked them so much, they still start the same way.
Happy Birthday, baby sister. I love you.