Another Year

At my age, you don't much think about your birthday, sometimes even try not to—at least that's been my approach. But might I just give a shout out to yesterday, which revealed itself like a memory book, took me back to most of the places I have been. Notes, calls, cards, gifts from a high school best friend, two college friends, a former next door neighbor, a garden friend, writing friends, work friends, dance friends, my agent (who sent a bird), my brother-in-law (who sent an apple-shaped perfume bottle), my sister (who sent a semblance of cheese), my brother (who recorder-played the birthday tune over the phone), my friend Ivy (books, and always the best sort from Ivy), my father (with whom I'll soon go garden shopping), my husband (who bought a fancy new lens for this camera of mine; stay tuned for abstract close-ups, once I figure out how to use the technological marvel), and my son, who swaggered into my office about six o'clock and said, "So. Another year. You're looking pretty good, considering."

I mean, really: If they're going to plunk another year onto your age, you might as well get your whole life back for a day.

Yesterday I did.