Whimsical yellow spirals twirl on the birthday tree. 

Wrapping paper tubes wave in the air. Two dauntless rockets of 100% kid power jump and sing: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" to me. 

Ants that sometimes double as "pets" scramble across the picnic blanket. 

I sit with my back to the birthday tree, covered in the canopy. The melodramatic lines are true: sometimes all you want to do is just watch the people you love breathe. One of those times where complexity is satisfied in simplicity. 

Someone accidentally shatters a glass cup of water (and he is okay). 

Someone shouts from fear (and she is okay, too). 

Someone licks drippy ice cream.   

Life is full of screams and shatters and sentimental nomads (like me) who are there to record them for better or for worse.

Someone blesses the day where we are with a prayer.  

The baby blinks at the shimmery green tree branches. 

Three presents are wrapped beside the decked-out tree trunk. A pile of pictures and cards rest at the edge of the crumpled bark. 

"This will be the best picture you ever get," the proud artist guarantees. 

I turn The Best Picture over in my hand. 

"Look, it's us!" It's us. The Best Picture. 

You know, the kind of Best Picture that exists when we are together. The kind of Best Picture we all want. 

The white page is bursting color of small scenes of us together. 

We are side by side mid-jump in the air, holding hands, matching hair. . . 

And small red hearts smile and hold hands, dancing on top of our heads.

xo

I lay back on the blanket, under the birthday tree and close my eyes. 

The lines of the liturgy my sister reads aloud are a silver thread, a sigh called epilogue, a stunning wail of hope to end the afternoon, under the birthday tree.