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.

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