Today is my birthday, and I begin celebrating it early this morming when my grandson knocks on the bedroom door where I’m sleeping, asks if he can come in, and when I say yes, skips in and cheerily chants, “Happy Birthday Grammy!” I’m not used to getting up so early, but the sun is shining, I went to bed early, and I’m far away from responsibilities. Perfect.
My daughter and son in law give me a pot of miniature calla lilies to plant in my garden. b!X calls from the Great Northwest.
My Ex emails my daughter with a birthday message for me:
Happy Birthday to you.
Happy Birthday to you.
You’re thrity years o-o-ld
For the thirty-sixth time.
He tells my that my sun-circling miles in 66 years, including Leap Days, now is at 38,762,448,000 miles. That’s billions and billions and billions.
Yup, there’s a lot of miles on this not-so-frail frame. And still miles to go before I sleep. But it’s the best birthday I’ve had in years.
This afternoon, we all sit together on the front steps and bask in the early spring warmth. Tonight, we’re having chocolate rasberry mousse for dessert. Life is good.
Except when my mother calls, upset because she can’t find the jewelry I know that she was wearing when I left. My sibling looks in all of my mom’s closets and drawers and purses. Even her pillowcase. No luck. I say look in her shoes, under the stack of bathroom towels. I don’t know where they are. I’ll look when I get back. She’ll just have to wait.
I’ve waited long enough for this recuperative visit. And it’s not lasting nearly long enough.