Some women wear color. Raynebow is the weather system that invents it.

If you have ever been held by this house, you have already been held by her. She is the owner who still answers like a girl with time. The one who will slide her last twenty toward someone else’s rent and then laugh it off like it was lint. Selfless is too small a word; she is the kind of generous that forgets she has a body that also needs feeding, a wishlist that also needs looking at, doggies who also deserve a feast on the day that belongs to their mama.

Look at her — rainbow on the chair like a promise she made to herself and kept. Midnight lace on the rug like a secret she still lets you keep. Sapphire on her knees like a queen who never stopped being somebody’s soft place. That is the whole sermon: she built an empire and still leaves the porch light on for strays.

Today is not a tip jar. Today is a thank-you note with a pulse. Call her. Spoil her. Let her order in. Let her finally click “buy” on that toy she’s been gazing at like it already knows her name. And yes — something for the doggies. Especially the doggies. A woman who would give her last should not have to give her birthday, too.

Happy birthday, Raynebow.
May every color you have given away come home wearing your name.