Birthday
The date that commemorates my birth begins in
about a half an hour. As I’ve grown, the importance of celebrating one’s own
birthday has diminished considerably. The mother ought to be the one getting a
celebration. She’s the one who deserves a party. I didn’t do anything. Nature
took its course. The only thing I can take credit for is being lucky for my
conception. Who knows what night it was in early 1962? What led to my parents
making love that night? Of all the hundreds of workable ovum that my mother
produced, what made the one in ten million spermatozoa produced by my father
connect? Am I here only because of a huge genetic roulette wheel; a craps
shoot? I wish I had that date. That’s the date I would celebrate for myself.
For my mother who has passed away, here’s to you. And to my father who is still
with us, I like your timing.