I love that you painted the Rolling Stones on your bedroom wall.
Life size.
In black.
And that you danced with Rod Stewart.
And that you climbed the Christmas tree in the market square with your best friend.
And the story of how you first met dad
down the folk club,
and that you thought he had nice legs.
[I love that dad wore shorts to go clubbing].

And I loved sitting on the back doorstep eating your warm homemade bread.
And love that when the lion escaped from the zoo, you were armed with a garden fork on our way home from the allotment.
And that when I announced at the very last moment
that actually I did want to enter the fancy dress competition,
you turned me into a pirate in ten minutes flat
and I wore your big sock on my head as a hat
and… I won!

I love that you can draw and paint and juggle
and know the names of all the garden plants.
And that you say cats can see the wind,
and how you think you sing like Bob Dylan.
I love every dress you ever made me
[especially the green shot silk].

And I love your kindness
and your wiseness
and your cleverness
and style.
And that you are now a septuagenarian,
along with Rod and Bob and Jagger
[and dad].