I am still every age that I have been . . .
—Madeleine L ‘Engle

I’m seventy-five years old today. That doesn’t even compute. I am still Becky, daughter of Albert and Lois, sister to Kathy, Mary, Sally, and Birthday Buddy brother Bill. I’m still the third grade me retelling the chapter Mrs. Jenkins read that day from Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle’s Magic at the supper table . . . the whole chapter . . . because it was so funny.

I am also a lot of other things and ages today . . . a folk singer on a stool in the center of the high school auditorium, a college student on the wide prairies of Canada. The twenty-year-old bride driving off into the Georgia countryside with my guy in his red Volkswagen Hatchback. A mama at twenty-two in a lonely Tennessee hospital. A stay-at-home mom of three babies under five. An English teacher with new reading glasses hanging on my bosom . . . and teenagers at home. A gramma, a great grandma. Madeleine was right.

It’s so much different than I thought it would be. I’m still me . . . all those me’s. Remember that, young ‘uns, when you see the lady with the white layered hair, jeans, and snow boots pushing her too-tall cart through Costco . . . smiling at you with your cart full of babies, or you with your polished nails and heeled boots and shopping list on your phone . . . she’s still you . . . and one day you’ll be her. Don’t be afraid. Life is still beautiful. You’ll still dream. You’ll still wake every morning opening the window to see the day. Still brew the perfect cup of coffee. Still be telling stories around the table . . .