It’s not that I wish I were never born. It’s not that I mind being a year older.
It’s just having a stinking birthday that I despise.
I’m sure that somewhere out there, there are people who associate having a birthday with presents, cake, candles, decorations, parties, celebrating, margaritas, oh, any number of lovely images. I am not one of them.
I tend to associate having a birthday with soul-numbing, bone-crunching tragedy.
I went to my Dad’s house, which should be my mom’s house still, but isn’t anymore, last night. He’s stripped away most of the evidence that she existed. The walls are bare, the surfaces are neat and empty. It looks like the hollow shell of a broken egg.
And I met his new girlfriend. She seems a nice person, wearing a sweater that said “My Grandkids are cute as buttons” with the obligatory collection of big buttons all over it. Her hair was fluffy and perfect. And she is not my mom. My mom is gone. Except the scent of her presence everywhere in that house. You can’t toss a person’s scent into a dumpster, apparently. But when Dad repaints, as he says he’s going to do soon, and remodels that will be gone, too.