It is admittedly slightly peculiar to make much of birthdays, at my age – I don't mean how many years (yes, 51 today), but the birthday itself, the person's own self-celebration.
Yet I always have cared about them, mine and those of others – I keep a lot of friend's birthdays in my running electronic calendar; I e-mail and phone them on those days, too, fairly often, including people I haven't seen face to face for years; they are often pretty startled by it. This year I let a lot of other people's birthdays go unmarked, in late summer and fall – it started to feel a bit unnecessary; or, no, that's not quite it – in focusing increasingly on myself, as I have been, calling them on their birthdays seemed to be something where I could miss a year here and there, if I didn't feel like it. If I didn't feel I knew exactly why I was making contact, I suppose. This year, for instance.
Birthdays: but I'll never rid myself of the feeling they should be special, that they mark something important, that people should do something exciting on each one. Of course, all of that becomes rather theoretical when living alone, in middle age....
Besides, the Hill sisters will want royalties if we sing that damned song, all the way through to the last
Comments