Date of Birth

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Date of Birth

“Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is

no one alive who is you-er than you!”--Dr. Seuss .

You know, in a sense,

birthdays themselves are an anomaly, 

                for when you are born, as an entity,

                you are already several months old,

                                   & the parents that be label you as a newborn,

                                   & start counting your age from that moment forward.

Hell, when we are actually two days old,

we are only the size of a lustful thought. 

I have been single several times in my life,

           & during those interim years my birthdays

           passed by without even glancing up,

           a tip of the hat, a smile,

                                     or even the flashing of a middle finger. 

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Today,

Christina Aguilera is 34,

Katie Holmes is 36,

Rachel Griffiths is 46,

Casper Van Diem is 46.

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Years ago,

my immediate family scattered         around the state,

                                  loosing touch with each other, unable

or unwilling to sustain cursory birthday traditions,

after the passing of my Mother at 39,

                                   & the passing of my Grandfather,

                                   letting the mantle of matriarch & patriarch

blow away like a tumbleweed in East Texas.

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Today,

Steve “Stone Cold” Austin is 50,

Brad Pitt is 51,

Ray Liotta is 61, &

Leonard Maltin is 63.

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I think most of us know

that One is a lonely number,

so some of us keep remarrying

until we get it right.       In my case the third time was magical, &

                                     for 22 years I have sustained a relationship,

& lived in the same house, both watershed moments for me.

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Today,

Steven Spielberg is 68,

Alan Rudolph is 71,

Keith Richards is 71, 

Roger E. Mosely is 82, &

Roger Smith is 82 as well.

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So, hey, you find yourself

building a new life,                       inheriting new in-laws,

                            raising some stepchildren,

                            welcoming grandchildren, &

Eureka, your birthdays become golden,       again, 

                             something worthy of a celebration.

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Today,

Ossie Davis would have been 97,

Betty Grable would have been 98,

Jules Dassin would have been 103, &

George Stevens would have been 110.

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Some birthdays just don’t effect us much,

                          14, 23, 34, 47, 52, or 62, but what about the

          10th, 16th, 18th, 21st, 30th, 40th, 50th, 60th,

                           & yes, by God, the 70th? 

           Those seem to get our attention,

shake up the available genomes, &

kick our cans in awe. 

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Today,

Gladys Cooper would have been 126,

Ty Cobb would have been 128,

Paul Klee would have been 135, & oh yeah,

Joe Stalin would have been 136.

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Over a decade ago,

my wife decided that on her birthday

                          she wanted to rent some cottages

                          at the ocean, & invite all of our family & friends.

We called it the Annual Birthday Bash, & the

                          first few were grand celebrations; beach fires,

                     sing-alongs, gifts for the guests, attended

               by more than 30 people,

         counting kids & dogs--this year

it was reduced to some of the immediate family,

                                             next year it might be

                                             just the wife & I, for the fairy dust

                                             has dissipated. 

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By the way,

            today Chris Farley, Anne Revere, & Sam Wanamaker

            died; perhaps we should consider

celebrating             Death Days?

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After passing 70,

I consider every dawn a gift,    every ache & pain the fare for

that day’s journey,                    every visit with the elders a possible

farewell, for them & for me, understanding

                    that each season could turn into my Winter, &

                    that every one of my birthdays represent an annual gift

given to me by Mr. Universe, for my specific longevity,

                    kept in a velvet box in my heart. 

I doubt that in June of 2044,

I will plunk my 100th chip into it, but who knows,

I might be that 100-year old bag of bones,

barely able to see, chew, or hear,

diapered-down,

hooked up to an IV,

spitting on everyone

as I attempt to blow out those century of candles.        

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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