In my thirties

I know two people who share my birthday, one from high school, Kelli, and one that I met at a wedding, Amber. Amber and I spent the night running around the reception and stealing people’s drinks as they put them down. She told me that what she was doing was rebellious because she was a Mormon. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but she was a lot of fun to be around. We kept in touch over the years via post, but as letter writing goes, one or the other of us delayed and delayed and then finally it was too late to write anymore.

January 29th isn’t much of a day for anniversaries, I mean, there aren’t many who get married in the chill of winter, but I do think of the anniversary of my old friend Chip on this day. Today is the anniversary of his death. In some ways I like that his death happened on my birthday because it guarantees that I won’t forget him. Also it reminds me that birthdays—even the innocuous 32nd one—are meaningful and should be celebrated.

Chip’s funeral was the first one I ever went to. I remember his wife—I’ve forgotten her name—and how she was the very picture of grief, and how uncomfortable that made me. More so, I remember his daughter, she was about Reilly’s age at the time, and though she didn’t affect me much then, I feel her pain even more so now, imagining how Reilly would react should I get cancer and one day leave her for good.

So, when people wish me a happy birthday, I am thankful, and I am grateful. After all, I’m only “in my thirties.”

It could be much worse.