There are few things in this world that have the ability to throw open the ancient beclouded windows of my soul, tear away the dusty rotting Fiberglas© curtains, and flood the dank, feces-encrusted room with sunlight. Oona is one of these, and she turns One today, still trailing clouds of glory. She singlehandedly keeps me from sinking below the surface of this vat of bile in which I tread...bile.
I know that throwing in the term "Fiberglas©" kind of upsets the heavenly refrain I was going for, but when I was young, my sisters had pink Fiberglas© curtains in their bedroom, and I remember vividly how they smelled dusty and they were kind of itchy. Not my sisters, the Fiberglas© curtains. Somehow, the memories I brought with me from the dim days of yesteryear are very tiny and not momentous at all, which I guess rules out a best-selling memoir.