Fewer than 3 percent of the dates in one year make up most
of the significant days in my life. Some are happy, while the others are sad.
They are the last ten days in March.
March 22. My birth date, back in 1949. In those days,
obstetrics weren’t nearly as advanced, and my mother didn’t know she’d be
having twins until three weeks before our arrival. She guessed something was
up, because boy were we heavy. Because it was the income tax season, my father
– a CPA – didn’t have time to buy and assemble another crib before April 15, so
Frank and I shared one for a short time.
The twins, March 1949
We are still getting used to her being gone, especially when we want to clear up a mystery – for example, what was the story with you living on the North Side after you were born? – or give her the latest gossip or news. Even when she began to slow down, we somehow thought she’d live forever.
Mom, Marisa and Grant 1982
Dad 1937
The engaged couple 1972
So I celebrate birth, love and death all in the span of less
than three weeks. From 1973 until 2004, I worried my end could come at any
time. After making it to 55, I figured every day from here on in was a blessing
. . . and it is. Somehow “65” – as odd as it seems to think it, say it and
write it – is quite o.k. I’m back to full health, roaming the neighborhoods
taking photographs and running the basketball court missing shots. We celebrate
a birthday this weekend and observe yahrzeits next weekend, then it’s back to
normal . . . until two birthdays and an anniversary during 18 days in January.
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