My grandmother sends me a birthday card, all glitter

and for the child in me.

The cover shouts,

“Happy Birthday to a granddaughter who has a sparkling personality, good looks, and a great sense of humor!”

and my sister asks if she has seen me lately.

We laugh.

The only handwritten inscription within declares

“Carson fell again—had to go to hospital this time.”

Happy Birthday to me, with love and

the unintentional reminder that I’ve not yet reached an age where a simple slip could result in

broken hips

or worse.

I’ll send her a thank you card, detailing my ambition,

what I will do with the money,

and a big thank you.

I suppose the most secrets I keep from anybody,

I keep from her.

I figure grandmothers don’t need more stress, don’t need to worry about

the somewhat-problems of life from a girl who will always seem too young,

who will always be glitter and

a child within.