Sixty is a Myth

I went through old pictures recently looking for evidence of the person I used to be.

Turns out she wasn’t hard to find through the photos … and she was a bit of a trip.

I didn’t have many fears as a kid.

I was completely comfortable being the younger sister at my brother’s birthday parties.

I was ok with being the life of the party on the dance floor.

And I think I was probably a bit exhausting.

My sense of fashion took a while to develop. My mom gently battled with my tom-boy tendencies. She often put us in matching outfits. She put me in a frilly dress, and yet in the picture with the frilly dress, I am holding … a toy tank. My mama was very fashion forward, dressing us both in Lilly Pulitzer before it became popular – hence the lady bug pants throughout Europe.

As the years passed, my clothing became a little more conservative and I got a little better at posing for the camera..

As I was looking at the pictures, one big realization hit me.

Everywhere I looked, there was love.

My father holding my brother and me close at Treetops, in Africa.

My mother, whom I never got very far from.

I always looked up to my big brother … and still do.

Receiving all of that love taught me to love back. And the pictures show it. This was me with my grandfather two weeks before he died. I know he died knowing how much I loved him.

My other grandfather was known for his letters to all of those that he loved. I saved all of the letters he wrote to me, or to my parents about me. He wrote this excerpt in a letter to my parents after I spent a week with my grandparents.

I did find me in the photos, but not necessarily the way I thought I would.

I found me in my dad. In my mom. In my brother. In my grandparents.

And in my sixtieth year, I carry all of them with me, so proudly and with such gratitude.

There I am.