Today is Celia’s 18^th birthday. Today she reaches
the age of majority … as we creak along toward the age of seniority.

Not really, though. A youngest daughter is a marvelous gift,
keeping her parents in fighting trim, bringing them face to face with the
future (whether they want to see it or not).

I went out before daybreak this morning to pick Celia a
rose. I had no trouble finding one; the whole yard was lit up by a full moon
ringed in a pinkish halo of mist. Above the moon was a contrail, a single arched eyebrow — a shooting star pointing up
instead of down.

It’s a lovely day for a birthday.

Celia at two-and-a-half.