Every year there’s a lot of joking around about how old Teres is this birthday. “21, again,” or “in my teens, celsius,” or “I have to be at least 28 so I’ll be older than my oldest son or it gets weird.”
And the thing is, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter how old her body gets, because her mind and her heart are so very young.
Young enough to be wildly, loudly excited about everything
Young enough to see a field of flowers and think less about gardening techniques or property values and more about how much she’d like to roll in it.
Young enough to be unable to pass a playground without wanting to swing, and often doing it.
Young enough to consider following a rock band around the country an attractive and viable goal.
Young enough to wear whatever she likes and make it work.
Young enough to live life hard and fast and love every minute of it.
Sometimes she’s a wise and experienced older woman. Sometimes she’s a giggling little girl. Sometimes she’s a young woman, active and sexy. Most times she’s a fascinating mix of all of those and more.
On her birthday, I celebrate Teresa’s birth and how grateful I am that it happened. How many years ago that was is, trust me, the least interesting thing about her.