It’s My
Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To
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Setenta tres. Seventy-three. I
bought a fancy chocolate cake yesterday at my favorite pasteleria. I’m invited
to dinner at John and Carol’s house tonight. Nobody knows it’s my birthday and
I ain’t telling.
But I’m taking my cake to share and will get great and secret
pleasure from having a party when nobody else knows it’s my party.
Day on top of day, the years have a way of rolling past. Getting
older doesn’t hold the same pizzazz and crackle for me that earliest years
held. Remember the day you turned six? That was a real landmark.
Ten is another for me, and I’m not at all sure why. Twelve
was a disappointment. Sixteen, for all the hype, was neither sweet nor
remarkable. At twenty-one I was two weeks away from having a baby girl.
I have photos of myself when I was thirty-four in which I
look to be an old, old woman in her sixties. Photos don’t lie. That was the
emotionally most painful, lowest point of my life.
At thirty-eight, my photo shows a young woman who likes
herself and has hope. I’d like to say every year got better but life holds too
much variety and we all know that would be a lie.
Forty-nine was a blur. All I could think was ‘almost fifty’.
When fifty came, I’d already lived the angst. A lot of foo-foo-rah for nothing.
What is one more day?
Seventy-three I am and living a life I could never have
dreamed at sixty-three. Fortunately, my body is relatively free from pain and
that is a huge happiness factor, believe me; I’ve been in the other camp and I know
the difference. Emotional pain is every bit as debilitating. When pain is
present, celebrating the good stuff takes guts and a heaping helping of denial.
My opinion.
Last week I met a woman from the near-by campground. She
asked where I lived. I described the location. “Oh, you’re the garden. I walked
by your place.” That’s as good a description as any I’ve heard. I’m the garden.
One of my red geraniums is so vividly red that it looks like
liquid. I want to dip a paint brush into the flower and paint the world. This
morning that cheeky squirrel ran over my naked feet as though I were not
attached. Amaryllis, though only a few are yet to bloom, still stand tall in
the garden, this their fourth month of show-off trumpets on stalks.
Magnolia, jasmine and roses mingle their scent with a purple
flower that has a cinnamon-like tang. Every day I see something new. A tiny
seed settled onto my palm, a gift from the wind, propelled by a feathery plume.
I’ve no clue what it is; a mystery seed bearing life.
My five-dead-trees are in full leaf. Again, this year, I
insisted, “They are dead. Look, twigs are dry and brittle.”
“No, just wait. They will leaf in March, remember,” Leo said
to me. I shook my head, negating the possibility. I am wrong. Buds in March.
Leaves in April. Flowers in May. Is that a kind of birthday?
Seventy-three. Tonight
I eat dinner with friends. I share my chocolate cake. Next week Steve and
Theresa from Washington will arrive to visit. The dead trees might be in flower
while they are here. I can hope. Leo shakes his head, “May.”
No matter. Have you ever seen a mother-in-law-tongue in
bloom—beautiful yellow flowers on a tall stalk? Jade and asparagus ferns are
flowering. There is no shortage of beauty.
Leslie Gore sang her song of tears at her party and I can cry
at mine if I want, but maybe, instead of tears, I’ll have my cake and eat it
too.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
April 12,
2018
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