Painted Skies

Angie Warren

"How will they be, mama?" she asked. "What's that, Quinn?" I leaned in. "The fi-ah works. How will they be?"

So I went on to tell her of the painted skies. We talked about the rain of light. The crackle of the finish.

And when they began, those fi-ah works, I got to experience them for the first time. All over again.

May I never forget the braids, the blue and white dress, the winter boots. May I drink in her smallness, her eager for life and love and joy. May I write the sound of her voice on my heart, to pick up and listen to at will.

May we all experience something for the first time, through the eyes of a child. The magic. The anticipation. The newness of something we grown ups have long forgotten.

We celebrate a birthday, but we celebrate too, a rebirth of ourselves. Which if we only allow it, just might be the loveliest gift of all.