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What is so special about 38?

So far:

I woke up and lurched down the stairs, still sleepy.

I walked into the kitchen, where 22 seconds remained on the oven’s timer. My husband was baking cinnamon rolls, and my timing couldn’t have been better. Charmed, already.

I poured Morning Thunder coffee into my green mug and asked if I could have the privilege of icing the rolls. I could.

As I iced, I chose the roll I wanted—a fat, gooey sugary conch shell of baked beauty on the edge. I lifted it onto a plate.

I ate outside, June-cool with young day’s sun shimmering through the aspens in our yard. People walked their dogs on the green belt’s path beyond our fence. I watched them.

Most didn’t seem to notice me with my green mug clutched close, smiling. I wanted to yell, like a 6-year-old, “Today is my birthday! Isn’t that the best?”

Maybe throw in a bathrobe twirl and curtsey?

18 comments to What is so special about 38?

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