If you were here, I'd drive you into Baltimore to have some world famous crab-cakes, and I'd delight in your swooning, the savoring, the way you roll your eyes absorbing even the tiniest minutiae of joy. We'd talk about food and you'd tell me about one time when you were in Thailand, or Australia, or France and I'd go with you there while you described in perfect detail, the best meal you'd ever eaten--or at least, one of them. I'd make sure the waitress knew it was your birthday and the whole restarant would sing "Happy Birthday!" to you.
If you were here, we'd talk about cookbooks. I'd show you the WWII cookbook I have that's dedicated to General George Patton and includes a plea to the women of America to make do with less in order to support the war. We might talk about Uncle Lester and Aunt Janie then and the time you spent with them in Florida. Eventually our talk would include Cleora's Kitchen. I'd remind you that I first saw it at Marion's house. And I'd admit that I went home and bought myself a copy, not for the recipes, but especially for the picture and the story of Cleora and the school photo. It still makes me laugh.
If you were here, we'd go to Annapolis to the Hall of Records and find Grace Eleanor Tenley's records. There's a street in D.C. called Tenley St; we'd find out why and we'd discover some local history, her parents and her siblings, sit on the floor among thousands of historic books and whisper like we did in the Memphis library five years ago now. On the way home we'd remind each other about our plans to go to Wales and walk the shores where the Pearce's lived. I'm looking forward to that.
If you were here, I'd take you to Mount Vernon where George Washington lived and is buried; you'd marvel and exclaim as we toured the house, the separate kitchen, the outbuildings; we'd walk down to the wharf of the Potomac, then over to a portion of the land that's still a working farm. You would laugh to discover that composting and crop rotation was a new idea then. We'd go through the threshing barn, then past a slave shack. Inevitably, our conversation would turn to slavery, growing up white in Memphis, Lena, and then we'd stand there in silence for awhile before hiking the trail through the woods to the mausoleum. A docent would point out trees that George Washington planted and are still thriving. On the way home we'd stop at a small out-of-the way restaurant for hot home-made soup.
If you were here, we might take the train to New York for the weekend. Take a carriage ride through Central Park, shop in Manhattan and have dinner at a world famous Italian place that I can't remember the name of just now, but Rachel would know. We'd take in a Broadway matinee, have our picture taken underneath the Wall Street marquee, tour Carnegie Hall and revel in the luxury of staying in a 5-star hotel.
If you were here, I'd tell you that you are a woman I have admired my whole life, that I love you for your intensity, the depth of passion and emotion you feel, that I understand it, the power and the contrast, the joy of it, and the burden. I'd tell you that I always felt safe when you were around. That you mothered us when you didn't have to. Every little girl should be so lucky. I'd tell you that you have many spiritual gifts and talents, that I love having deep conversations with you, and I love the way you question what is and what could be, always looking forward to the future as a place of happiness and light.
If you were here, I'd bake you a big chocolate birthday cake, because I make the meanest chocolate cake ever, and you'd agree with me after the first bite. I'd close my eyes, too, for just a moment while you made a wish, and I'd ask God to grant your wish, because of your passion for life and everything good and the way you have always loved. If you were here, I'd give you a hug so strong and immense that you could feel it anytime you needed one for the rest of your life.
If you were here, I'd say, Happy Birthday, Dear Sister, Friend of My Heart. Happy Birthday to you.
