It’s not my birthday today, but it’s the day that I used to use for it. My
best friend, who I grew up with, was born exactly six months after me, to
the hour. Obviously, we used to have our own separate celebrations, but we
liked to do everything together, so we figured we might as well include
birthday parties in that. We split the difference, and always observed it
halfway between mine and hers. Our families didn’t really understand why we
would want this, and it took them a while to recall the occasion, since the
date wasn’t significant for any of them, but they eventually got on board,
and it became a lovely tradition. As we got older, we did the usual thing of
distancing ourselves from our families, and exerting our independence, but
we never grew apart from each other, and we never stopped these middle
birthdays. She died years ago, not too long after our last ever joint party. It
was so sudden, but not an accident. Her heart just stopped beating. I think
her parents know more about it than they wanted to tell me, but I don’t
think there was anything anyone could have done to stop it. I was
devastated, and depressed, and I didn’t know what I was going to do with
myself. Who was I without her? We would always go on group dates, and we
took care of each other, and we had no secrets. I just sort of went on
autopilot after that, letting my routines take me through life, which just
made it worse, because so many of those routines involved her. I realized
after that how much I loved her, and that I didn’t really need anyone else
to be happy. Those dates were pointless. Rather, they weren’t, but we were
really just dating each other. We were in love, at least in every sense that
mattered. Sex was so unimportant to both of us. We probably would have
admitted this much about ourselves, and stopped trying to find partners in
others. Now we’ll never know.
A few months after it happened, her real birthday rolled around. I didn’t
realize it until the end of the day. I was sitting on my couch, watching
whatever happened to be on TV, when the weather came on. They showed us the
date, and I realized its significance. A normal person would know exactly
what day it was, but I had all but missed it. It’s like she died all over
again, I cried for hours. Thin walls line my apartment, I know my neighbors
heard, but everyone knew what was going on, so they didn’t say a word. The
next day, my neighbor to the left invited me over for dinner, and though he
still didn’t say anything, I know it was because he didn’t want me to have
to be alone. It was nice. We started to do it every week, making it a new
tradition. I should have seen it all along, but I didn’t notice what was
really going on until my own real birthday occurred. Again, I didn’t realize
right away what day it was, because the day was so meaningless. But that
neighbor wanted to take me out, and do something special. The way he looked
at me that night, it was the same way he always looked at me, but I was
seeing it in a new light. It was love. He was in love with me, and I was in
love with him. We had been dating for the last few months, and I didn’t even
know it. I felt like such an idiot. How many times did I act like a bad
girlfriend because I wasn’t aware that I was one. I decided to be honest
with him. I’ll always remember his smile. He wasn’t the least bit surprised
at how dense I was being, and he didn’t hold it against me. We just kind of
started over from there, with both of us on the same page. We have been
married for thirty years. And now I’m dying, and it’s not my birthday, but
it’s the day that I used to use for it.
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