A Birthday Not Forgotten

In the prime of my youth, I was blessed with a quick wit and a crooked smile. Looking back on this day in 1991, I recall a conversation I had with my mother. As she stood in our living room folding laundry on the sofa, I sat across from her perched on the arm of a plush, earthy hued chair. From the corner of my eye I could see my father relaxing in the den. While enjoying a television program, he was also quietly eavesdropping on our tete-a-tete. My mother and I were calmly discussing the activities of the day when she surprised me with a tone of sadness and frustration. At first, I did not recognize what elicited such a change in her voice. Perhaps she was waiting to for me to make a declaration of glad tiding, perform a grand gesture, or share a simple gift of affection. Being the self-absorbed teen I was, I am now disheartened over my insensitivity but still chuckle at my boldness. Our exchange concluded with this:

Mom (reminiscent of a downtrodden and disbelieving Samantha Baker in Sixteen Candles): Don't you have anything else you would like to say to me today?
Me: No.
Mom: Don't you even know what day it is?
Me. It's Sunday.
Mom: You didn't even wish me a happy birthday, you jerk.
Me: Happy birthday, you jerk!

Boisterous laughter dispersed with intermittent coughing erupted from my father as he choked on my heartfelt sentiment. When it comes to birthdays, I not only inspire emotion, I set the bar high for Hallmark expression.



This photo of my parents was taken in 1985 while they were cruising the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean. I think they look so happy because my sisters and I were not with them. My mom was 36 years old. I am turning 36 this summer. She was young and beautiful and will always be remembered this way. I miss her smile. I miss her warmth.

Thinking back on the time I spent with my mother, I can hardly believe she has been separated from me nearly as long as she was with me. I can still hear her calling me home after a summer's evening of play. I can smell her lingering perfume and feel the brush of her delicate fingers upon my skin. After all these years, it is interesting what memories stay with you. I often wonder what memories my own children will have of me. I hope they remember more of the good times and less of the times when I am ornery and impatient. I hope they know I am striving to do my best and even though I am flawed and imperfect, I am grateful for the blessing they are in my life. And when I am gone, I hope they will feel of my infinite love for them and appreciate that their success in life could be no greater testament to mine.