A Ninetieth Birthday Observed

My Dad's birthday was yesterday. It would have been his ninetieth. His was a powerful presence in the lives of his children, and that power continues to be felt, now six years since his death. I do not know if I think of him daily—I read somewhere that memories "wear out" with use, and each time we recall an event or a face, we are actually remembering the memory, which erodes a little with each reference. How many times may a memory be summoned before it bears no resemblance to its origin? I've become stingy with my deliberations on past times, past people—I do not want to be unable to conjure my father's smile or the sound of his laughter or the rhythm of his lanky manner of walking. Even now, I want to shoo away the images these words evoke, lest they be thoughtlessly recalled to their eventual detriment.

Fortunately,  I have tucked away so many memories of each of my parents that that I no longer fear that I will outlive them, that I will wear them out before I no longer need them. Not all the memories are happy or pleasant, but no matter. They each contribute to my sense of having become myself through those experiences, including those influences and individuals who shaped my worldview and my expectations of this life. Like DNA, the events of one's life, especially in the pre-adult years over which one has no real control, are cards one is dealt. Sussing out the degree to which my personal desires or decisions have affected the playing of those cards is not my preferred activity at this point. It is enough to be out of the game at last. Finally, I feel I can live mindfully in the present, observing birthday anniversaries, not as memorials to departed loved ones, but as ongoing milestones in my own life, in my own heart, where these dear ones will forever reside.