Today is the birthday of Connie, my friend from childhood on. It is a dear date to me, and one I celebrated with her for more than sixty years. It is usually a beautiful day, when spring has fully emerged from the gray of winter. When it is neither too hot nor cold, neither too dark nor light. When the skies are blue and a soft breeze blows. The movie Miss Congeniality validated my love of the day when a character in a beauty contest described it as a "perfect date," adding "all you need is a light jacket." Way back when, I wanted it to be my wedding day, but the best I could do was the 25th of the coldest, darkest month. And she, somehow, tied the knot on a 23rd, my birthday number. Four months older than me, when she turned her new age, I automatically considered myself that age, too. Always. Three months after her 2020 birthday, she died. The scourge of our generation, smoking, was no doubt the biggest reason. Then my hubby died just twelve weeks ago! When I realized that the two people I talked to every day, and who probably knew me the best, and to whom I could say anything and they would understand, were forever gone, I felt alone.
I am successfully moving into the future as I should, but today is a reminder of the importance of relationships, old friends, love, the breaths of life, sticking together, and making our days count. Because they matter to someone.
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