I was on my way to work yesterday. Driving my typical route, on my typically delayed schedule. The phone rang and it was my mom. “Happy Birthday!” She sounded so happy, so proud that her son was taking a hold of his 30’s at a ripe 33. Touching, heartfelt, the love of a mother is unlike any other love on this earth.
This started an intense line of questioning.
“What do you mean, Happy Birthday?”
“What?”
“My birthday is tomorrow”
“Oh my goodness!!” – She started laughing uncontrollably.
“Do you have any other children you want to tell me about?”
“No!” – more laughter
“Is there anything you need to tell me, mom? Is this how it starts? First my birthday, then what? Perhaps my name?”
More laughing.
OK OK I’ll lay off the gas. I started laughing uncomfortably too. In her defense, she is retired for the most part and works freelance when she wants to so… she lost track of the days. She said she really thought it was July 19th, she remembered when my birthday was, just got the day of the week botched. I am going to let it slide. But I’ve got my eye on her.
I’ve got that look on my face because my dad’s nuts are rested against my afro.
Now a poem:
July Eighteen, will lay the scene.
I said “Mother, what ever do you mean?”
She said “wow”
“I remember now”
“Your birthday is July Nineteen”
COLDTONES 