Today, my sister, Margaret Page
Bullard Burris (they’re so close, it’s so hard to remember!) is turning 29 years old.
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but 29 is only 12 short months away from 30, which, from what I understand, is pretty much death. Maybe not so much death, but certainly on the down hill portion of the ride. I write this not to be mean or foreboding, but rather to encourage Page to live this next year like no other. Hopefully once she stops hobbling around she can begin her 29th year here on earth with a bang. A metaphorical bang, not the sound of a toe sending a laundry basket flying across a laundry room. I hope she spends this next year enjoying the wonderful blessings she’s been given, cause she’ll probably be too old to remember anything next year. Then again, she’s already got like, 90 cats, so maybe she should cash out early and just become the crazy cat lady that kids dare each other to talk to. That could be fun if you approached it with the right attitude.
Well Page, you know all this mean sarcasm is my emotionally stunted way of saying I love you. I hope you enjoyed your 28th year, but I hope you enjoy your 29th even more. I hope I get the chance to spend some of it with you.
And I hope Chandler doesn’t cut your life short by sitting on your face while you’re asleep or something.