As my eyes watched a plump robin struggling to pull an earthworm from the moist grass on my front lawn, my mind traveled to a budding time in my life — becoming 13. I liked birthdays, being the center of attention, the private way my mom and dad treated the date, even though I often had a separate party with friends.

"So? How was the show?" Joy, my sister four years younger, entered my bedroom. She was pleased yet envious that I'd gone just with my father to see “Alice in Wonderland.”

"Oh, Bambi Lynn is so pretty. She's the perfect Alice." I danced as I spoke. "And the theater was in a crazy place. Columbus Circle. Not near the others. I liked it."

"What else? What else?" Joy sat cross-legged on the chenille bedspread. Lint was gathering on her skirt but she didn't yet notice.

I continued to pretend I was Bambi Lynn. "What a swell name. Bambi Lynn. The Mad Hatter was cute. Oh, we went to Rumplemeyers for ice cream. Then we clopped-clopped around Central Park in a carriage pulled by a huge horse...bigger than horses I ride. I wore my pink dress with the backwards bolero that buttons down my spine. Guess what else?"

"What? There's more?

"I wore stockings! They were the ugly silk not the sheer Mojud nylons. But real stockings. I hate a garter belt, though." I stopped swinging in circles and plopped on the bed.

"I hate cod liver oil," Joy interrupted.

"And creamed spinach," I continued making a game out of “hates.”

"And liver. Phew!"

"And tunnels."

"Tunnels?" Joy uncrossed her legs then sat on her knees. "Why?"

"I just don't like long dark places and having mountains of water above me that can come
crashing through."

"Never knew you were afraid of anything," Joy giggled. "What about presents? Bet you don't hate those."

I moved to my dresser and lifted a small bottle. "Heaven-sent. This tiny bottle cost $1.00. Remember you gave it to me last birthday? You wanted to buy me La Cross nail polish but knew Mom'd never let me put it on. I like this smell." I opened the tiny top and pushed it under Joy's nose.

"Can I put some on?"

"Sure. Behind your ears. That's right. Let me smell. Pull your hair back." I bent over to inhale the cologne's smell. "I like it on you, too."

"Do you feel older?" Joy pushed her hair back in place. Parted in the center made it fall into two clumps.

"I'd like a pinafore and puffed sleeved dress just like Alice and I could pretend I was falling down the rabbit hole." I returned the cologne to the dresser. "I feel just like I did yesterday, day before, day before. I just feel like ME. Every day. When my Sweet Sixteen comes, and then have grown-up parties forever and ever, I'll just be an extra-special me that day."

"Three years from now is forever," Joy dropped flat on her stomach leaning on her elbows with her face resting between her hands.

"Next year you'll have two numbers. That's forever, unless you get to be a hundred!" I loved birthdays no matter that time was moving me through its passage. "Maybe when I'm old and wrinkled and in ugly brown dresses and old lady's stockings, I'll feel different. I like most everything now."

Outdoors, in this now-21st century spring, robins began singing. The daffodils I'd planted last autumn were a fresh burst of yellow. Do I feel older since pinafores, cod-liver oil liquid, perfume for a dollar, sugar cube corsages, and Bambi Lynn are considered history? I'm calendar aged, skinny, have face wrinkles, wear fitted feminine pastel dresses, belts around my small waist, and transparent nylon stockings. I love life, love today, its specialness. Balloons from my kids. The ME still likes the childlike magic of this celebration. I still worry about rabbit holes and all the Alices in Wonderland, but the cherished gift, as my mom used to philosophize, is being alive and having a birthday.

My sister telephoned, now glad I was the one four years older. I so wanted her to remember Bambi Lynn and my thirteenth, but it was only mine to really retain. "So my physical decades have multiplied and I'm categorized with the yuck-term ‘senior citizen,’ but..." Then, without any inhibition, I admitted, "Joy, inside my mind is still a giggling girl who likes most everything now."

Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & soft-cover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including 12 different divisions of The Smithsonian.