It may be a sign of getting old (and not simply older), but for the first time in my life, I woke up on my birthday not remembering it was my birthday.
My mother’s recent passing perhaps had something to do with it. Maybe I was preoccupied. But even so, I recall that she always made a point of celebrating my birthday. Perhaps that’s why things this morning seem all the more vibrant.
Breathing in the fresh morning, I look left at the morning sun.
Rising up through the thick canopy of leaves, the sun appears like an archipelago of gold or perhaps a cluster of souls or maybe the lights of a busy cityscape.
As I step barefoot onto the back stoop, the air outside—although kept at bay only by an old screen door—is noticeably cooler, a memory of the night.
Looking into the yard, I notice the yet-unplanted azalea sent by Aunt Joan from California. Small, but filled with blooms and life, its pink color borders on blue. At least I would say so if I didn’t know better. Perhaps it’s the sleepy still in my vision.
Carmen stumbles in and offers the best rendition of “Happy Birthday” that could be expected at this hour of a summer morning.
Some say that each night we die and are reborn. I’m not sure I buy that, but regardless, I know that each day offers a new beginning. That’s the best birthday gift one could hope for.
Birthdays are special and so are you! Resolve to make EVERY day special with the many gifts you have been given.
Hugs………….