It was that all that got to me—I wanted my day to be special.
The essay must have touched a universal nerve. This August 28, my mailbox was filled with birthday greetings—so many feeling sorry for me, and maybe themselves, at the thought of being forgotten. The cards were only the beginning—after getting long-stem multicolored roses from my husband, I was surprised by two impromptu celebrations—one with apple crisp (from one of those siblings) and then with lunch and cake and ice cream, served by three grandchildren, two of whom along with their mom also have August birthdays.
Maybe I should not be embarrassed, only reminded. Everyone wants to feel special one day of the year—not because of something they do but only because they live and are present among us. My friends and readers, by their thoughtfulness, demonstrated again that every life is precious, including my own.