Birthdays have never meant
much to me. Sandwiched between Christmas and New Year's Day, it was always
overshadowed by the big holidays. Of course the day I turned sixteen meant a
lot to me. I was now old enough to legally drive. I parked myself behind the
wheel of my various cars after that and wasn't seen around my parent's home
much. At the age of eighteen I was now considered an adult, sort of, and fodder
for the Vietnam war. So that birthday meant something to me and the United
States Army. Turned out that they didn't want me. The last big birthday was
twenty one. I was now old enough to drink and vote, and this being Chicago, in
that order. After that my birthdays meant nothing to me. Just years flowing by
until recently. A few years ago I realized how fast years pass and that old age
was coming at me like a Mack truck in the wrong lane.
On Tuesday I looked in the
mirror and saw my grandfather. When I was a kid it seemed like he had been in
his seventies for about twenty years. I was now seventy three, and things keep
failing. Eyes, feet, knees, shoulder, and a few other things are going bad.
So now birthdays mean something different than they did when I was young.
They're just another clickity clack of the tracks under the train hurtling me
towards death.
Anyway, Tuesday was my
birthday and I appreciate all the well wishes, dinners, and booze. The only
thing I miss about my birthday is the phone call. Each and every birthday for
the last forty or so years, the phone would ring. I would answer "Hello",
and my mom would start singing 'Happy
birthday to you..." Over the years the voice became a bit weaker until a
couple of years ago, when I didn't get the call. That's the only thing I miss,
and the only person who I really ever wanted to acknowledge my birth.
No comments:
Post a Comment