He interrupted my writing time – that time I try to carve out in the early morning hours before the light creates shadows and reveals to me what the world really does look like, rather than what appears in my imagination. It was his right to do this; it’s his birthday.
So I told him the story about that day, when, at about this time, his brothers were eating the blueberry pancakes his father had made for them, and how our neighbor came over to baby-sit while we went to the hospital. “You would arrive in about two more hours, and then my mom was on her way over to relieve the neighbor and wait with your brothers. Your brother, the one who is now in 8th grade, missed morning kindergarten that day.”
“Why?”
“Because his parents were busy.”
The day before there was snow all over the ground, just like today, and there were ice bumps in random spots all over the streets.
“So, that would have been Tuesday?”
“Yes, and I almost fell holding the bikes up for your brothers while they tried to ride them through the ice and snow.” (Why didn’t they use sleds?”)
And then we made snicker doodles, and ate them and waited for you to come.
Beautiful poetry, my friend. Happy birthday to the boy.
He will remember this and treasure it. Happy birthday, to you too, as it is every bit as much a birthday for the mother….