The birthday tree didn't bloom this year and sadly, it looks pretty sickly. Twenty seven years ago it was an explosion of pink flowers with berries the day my husband and I brought our daughter Julie home. I've watched that tree get scragglier as the years went on. She's a mommy now with two little babies and married to a carbon copy of a man I had drawn a picture of years before at our kitchen table. We laughed so much that night and when I asked her if she'd like to add anything to her dream man, she said, "yes, I want him tall and tattooed!" He happens to be 6 ft. 6 in. and has I think around twenty tattoos with a huge heart like the one I drew later when she went to bed.
We had a little party with pizza and cake and when everyone was leaving, my grandson started crying because he didn't want to leave. He's hugging me and begging to have a sleep over while his uncle is dead tired from working all day and begging for us to move the cars so he can get to his apartment. Another uncle is saying, "waaaa, I have to stay here so I can pay my bills."
I just happened to glance at that birthday tree without its leaves or flowers and realized right then and there that everything has its season, you know, like a shelf life. Expired milk tastes disgusting passed its date. Change is inevitable and beautiful, I honor its wisdom.
Tomorrow is going to be warm and sunny. I'm going on a special date with my grandson. Maybe we'll shop for a new tree.
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