Someone asked me very recently – what are birthdays for anyway? Everyday should be like a birthday, celebrating the people we like and love.
Truth is we don’t. Stuff happens. You quit emailing. You develop an edge. You think murderous thoughts about those who have caused you grave injustices. You forget to check in, to say the nice comment. Sometimes you can’t get yourself to admit you even like a person – their insanity being so evident in your eyes.
Birthdays are different.
I don’t know if my Mom reads Ocean. She did once and thought it sheer madness, so she probably stopped. But if you do, on the sly, this note is for you, Mom: thank you for these: