Soon my granddaughter turns one.  As in she has been a blessing to the people around her for twelve months. Actually, I loved her even before that, they way you anticipate a wedding, or a trip abroad. It cultivates joy and energy long before you step into the church or the airport. Love is tricky that way, how it leaks in before you meet someone, and lingers long after they are gone. The other day a friend mentioned that she will meet her future son-in-law's parents this summer. Probably she has already decided to like them. I know I had, when we arrived a few days before our son's wedding and hugged the people whose child had won the commitment of our own. 

 

But Olly is going to blow out a candle. She may not be interested in the way we grown ups count and measure the days, lopping them off at intervals of 365, or 366 as the case may be. But she will be pleased with a sprinkled cupcake and a pile of colorful presents with free rein to rip the paper. 

 

Really birthdays are just a ploy for unleashing our affection. It gives legitimacy to the practice of celebrating those who could otherwise be as forgotten as the air we breathe, and the sun on our cheeks. Remembering them is an ordinary miracle, the kind that turns dessert into a party, and a walk into a parade.