My birthday came on October 12th. There was a new yellow rose from you. You’ve sent one every year since your death. I cut it and took it to Mary, my care receiver, at the nursing home. I told her it was a very special rose from heaven and that it would bloom beautifully. I thought since it already blessed me, I’d take it and let it bless her too.
I continue to live in my beautiful fall mode. Jamin asked, “What’s with all the little pumpkins and stuff all around? I answered, “It’s autumn. It’s harvest time. I felt like decorating this year and I’m glad.” But I was so sad on my birthday. It has nothing to do with turning 47. I don’t worry about age. The other day my dental hygienist said three times that she couldn’t believe I was in my forties. I hate my birthdays because you’re not here. I pulled out the last cards you gave me and put them by your picture. My favorite is the one where you just wrote Happy B-Day Mom with a big smiley face and Love, Bugs. Then the Ziggy card where you wrote, I’ll bake you a cake and I’ll get you a gift as soon as I get to the store, and I laughed because you always had such a good heart. Even if you never got around to doing either of those things, you never failed to say Happy Birthday to me at the beginning of that day.
