Happy, happy birthday, baby, Part II

I remember vividly your sweet smiling face as you ran into my room in the morning. Tiny little girl, white hair, big green eyes, smelling so sweet. You'd jump in my bed and I'd hold you, wishing I could hold you forever.

Today you're 24. You haven't changed much. Hair is sometimes white, sometimes pink, sometimes black, sometimes red. You're still beautiful. If I had one wish for myself today, it would be to hold you in my arms and tell you how proud I am of you. It's hard to talk about you without getting choked up. As Michael says, "Summer is all about good." You make us all want to be better people. If I had one wish for you, it's that you always be happy.

I watch you with Riley and I feel such happiness. You're so good to him and he's so lucky to have you as his mother. You care for everyone and everything. You won't compromise your beliefs. Where others give in to their taste for meat or trendy clothes, you won't even eat a marshmallow. You'd rather wear a burlap bag then something from the Gap and you'll dress your son in clothes from the $1 bin. Funny thing, though, you and Riley look more stylish than models in a Paris fashion shoot. You are an artist, in every sense of the word. You never cared what's "in," yet you've always been a trendsetter. When it comes to women's rights and gay people's rights or children's or animal rights, you're the first to volunteer your time. You cry for the sadness of others and rarely put yourself first.

I know you could be a millionaire if you so desired. Everyone sees your talent, but again, you won't compromise. No matter how many times you're told that you can sell your designs for lots of money, your answer is always the same: " I want everybody to be able to afford the things I make," or my favorite, "I'll never be some asshole who ripps people off."

So, Summer Ann Allen, aka Indierocket, aka Ocean Ann Allen, aka Summie Ummie Ummie, I tip my hat to the kindest girl on the planet. You make me proud to say, "I'm Summer's mom."

Before Summer Rain

Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood
you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour
will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid -Rilke