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Don't pass me By
It feels oddly fitting that your 70th birthday falls within Passover, as I reflect on the many times you've been spared (or forgotten?) during the past 17 years.
I used to hate your birthday, dread the "celebration," loathed participating in usual fanfare of cake and presents and singing happy wishes as though any of it felt remotely normal or fair.
But time changes things, not healing wounds, but forcing us to examine them more closely, appreciate the growth and love despite them. You are here. You have beared witness. Your heart goes on beating.
It is an anomaly, a Miracle. Cruel. Reassuring. Devastating. Beautiful. You embody every part of the strange, divine, magically brutal month and season in which you were born.
Happy birthday, momma. There aren't enough words for my love.