As I was keying in today’s date to run a report at work, I felt my face get flush and tears begin to well up in my eyes. I realized today would have been my cousin Debbie’s 50th birthday. If she had lived, I would have spared no expense today to remind the world that she was now officially old. I would have planned and plotted for months, with my sister and her sister, on ways to embarrass Deb – geriatric male strippers, dead roses, lifetime membership to AARP, and some sort of obscene cake would have all been part of the festivities. No doubt she’d reciprocate in August when I turn 50. But my cousin, whom I shared so much with as a child, chooses not to be here for this momentous occasion.
Over the past 15 plus years, she’s missed out on all the significant events in her goddaughter’s life. She would have been the cool aunt both my children could pour their hearts out to without fear of any of it getting back to me. She would have taken my son to concerts, gone to my daughter’s volleyball games. And she probably would have been the one to teach them both to drive. But don’t get me wrong, she was not, but any stretch of the imagination, perfect. There were times when I hated it because she was so hard to deal with. But, she was family; more like a sister than a cousin and we shared a bond and a history that couldn’t even be broken by death.
So happy birthday Debbie, maybe we can celebrate together in another 50 years
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