I don’t think it can be forced or planned. Some people just fit. It was that way, right from the start with my mother. 

It took me several years to understand that her birthday was not the same as mine. That she didn’t come to life the minute I was born. That I didn’t come to life the minute she was. Maybe there should be that day. But how would I choose? We have anniversaries for marriage. Graduation days for classmates. Even the Fourth of July for America – the 14th for France. But the exact day I don’t remember, when first my head fit into the crook of her elbow, the other hand cupping my back, when she called me by love’s name. The first day she dared to sing to me. I smiled and sang along in coos that weren’t words, and I became that tune that everyone said she couldn’t carry. 

And the soundtrack of our years went faster than days. As the song says, “How do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume?” Thank them for the bandages sealed with kisses. Tears wiped with hands that pointed straight to the giggle in the other side of the room. She, who loved the frosting and I the cake. It was all so easy to share. Everything. 

Today is her birthday. And joyfully, I hold a piece of it for myself. And she would like that. She would like it if you bought the birthday cake from Elden’s grocery store and ate it right out of the pan, even in the parking lot. She would encourage you to get two lemon boats at the bakery, with a side of cream horn. To order the latte. Drink the wine. To celebrate, because of her. With her. Every day! To sing out loud (not with our mouth’s full) with the tune that she gave us, the song she let us all become. 

Happy Birthday, Mom! 🎵🎶🎤