I have so many words bouncing around my mind right now, and I'm not sure where to put them. They don't fit together fast enough and it's like summer again, real summer. We were real that summer and we are real this summer only more beautiful and less wild.
You don't follow the rules. Even when you follow the rules, the rules don't follow you. Your wild is beautiful. Your ugly is beautiful and your broken is beautiful.
I was always so jealous of you. Jealous in a good way though, not the bitter resentful kind but the "maybe if I stand close enough I'll catch some beautiful" kind. I wanted stars on my ceiling and paint in my hair.
I hope you're happy. I hope you stay happy. I hope you're always a little wild and I hope you always go barefoot in the summer. I hope your house breaks every rule we learned in interior design and your babies have curly hair and freckles, and I hope you show them how to hold the world in their hands, because no one else knows how to do that quite like you.
I hope you teach them about summer. Tell them about the bench on the creek and cotton that falls like snow and teach them how to write. Write them letters, so many letters, and poems, and songs. Maybe write me one while you're at it. Tell me about your babies and I'll tell you I hope they're just like their mama, because if they are then I know they'll turn out just right.