Eulogy for an unplanned birthday

I know, I know. We’re supposed to suck the marrow out of every, every day. But, I’ve got to be honest here: I regularly poop out on grabbing the minutes by their hopeful little feathers with that level of gusto.

I just had a birthday. It was an insignificant year and my few plans were modest, at best. The most exceptional thing I could say, when folks asked how I planned to celebrate, was that I was taking the day off.

That’s it. That’s what I did. I held one day, a Monday, in reserve for myself when I could have been working.

Not that my job is so highfaluting, or that I’ve got a perfect attendance bee in my bonnet, but setting a day aside for no real reason, other than it being my birthday, felt like a squirmy kind of self-indulgence.

It turns out, it was one of the best things I’ve done in a good little while. And, you know what else? I liked me a little bit more for having had the determination to make it happen.

I owe it all to the one day.

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No lunch with girlfriends, sipping cold wine on a hot patio. No trip out of town, to climb hills or wade in the ocean. You were just a humble day, a wide-open collection of hours to do with as I pleased. This was your birthday gift for me.

First, you let me write letters, a habit you knew had fallen, like last year’s yarn, to the bottom of my project basket, while I focused on other kinds of wordsmithing, knitting together pieces I trot out in public. Socks and scarves and fancy, fingerless gloves. But the everyday dishcloths, those practical bits of correspondence, had gone by the wayside. So, for an hour or so, you gave me permission to write letters.

On my way home from the gym, you were the one that saved the box turtle from the road. I terrified him, I know, because his purposeful limbs and elongated neck shrank up as I approached. When I locked my hand around his carapace and lifted him up for his short flight to safety, his whole body disappeared completely, the closing of his shell making a small noise, like a mother pulling shut the door to the room where her baby has finally fallen asleep.

You didn’t mind when I did a load of wash, on my birthday, and hung it outside to dry. It’s funny how even chores can feel like freedom when there are no other obligations bearing down.

You let me soak up digital well-wishes and eat Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups without needing to check the clock or the calendar.

Marking the anniversary of my arrival earthside, you took me to the garden, where I marveled at the harvest of sangria-hued beets. You sat with me and savored the hand-picked blackberries, still warm from the July sun, that were delivered, along with sweet conversation, by my dear friend.

Only because of you was I willing to spend a deliciously ridiculous number of minutes watching rabbits, with their marble-eyed charm. Not that I wouldn’t have noticed them anyway, on any other day. But you, generous, unplanned day, you gave me no reason to pull away from the three bigs and the three littles, just now brave enough to venture forth.

I read, that day, about how Eastern cottontails can have two to four litters per year, with three to five kits each, and that they live an average of 15 months. Long enough for me to make another entire solar orbit.

As evening set in, you brought my own offspring in, and sat us down. Beautiful grown-up women, off living beautiful lives in faraway places, who turned up together at the same time on my screen. A rare gift. Thank you.

Having opted to have our celebratory meal the night before, you nudged my lover and I toward the leftovers for dinner. You’re smart like that. This is not your first rodeo.

As you moved to make a graceful exit, the ringing phone made me jump. One of my brothers, calling late enough to startle me fully awake. Our mother used to do that. We talked about her, our parents, how when they were our age we thought they were old.

That night, I dreamed of standing in an open, grassy field, my head tipped back to look at the clouds. One of them looked like a rabbit.

~Elizabeth