I was 8 years old when you were born.
You were such a beautiful baby, I was jealous of you but not in a bad way.
There are so many things about our younger years that are blurred;
we were set apart.
Destined for division.
As I got older, and constantly in trouble, I only seemed to seal that fate.
But now, as time has pushed us past the barriers of adolescents and we make up our own minds about things,
you have become the best kind of friend that I didn’t know I’d need.
You are strong and stubborn and adamant.
You are beautiful, and wildly authentic.
Loud and boisterous.
Hilarious and headstrong.
You are reliable and loyal and hard-working.
Independent and sharp.
You will always argue for the under dog, you can’t help it.
Most people don’t get to see the you that deeply thinks and questions.
Deeply feels and loves, selflessly.
You are a teacher, taking time and liberties that no one else does…or would.
You are vinyl records and recycled bottles of baby houseplants.
You are adult soccer leagues and recorder of our memories.
You are an artist.
Your instruments are everything in your reach.
Pens, pencils, banjo’s, ink,
cast iron skillet and bacon grease.
I’m so proud of you.
Proud to call you my friend .
Proud to call you my sister.
(HAPPY BIRTHDAY š )
