And in the corner she calls hers, Paulson looking on, I showed her my video from the night before in Pittsburgh—the grandkids and everybody chiming in on Happy Birthday and then him snuffing the candles on the cupcakes. She studied it, perplexed.

“You had your first baby 73 years ago,” I crowed.

She maybe caught on. “That’s a long time,” she said.

The time for remembering is past. The past’s grand, lived sweep is still there—the big-picture memories—but the tiny vital things like dates and names hide maddeningly in the fog.

It happens every year—one’s birthday. For once, you’re special. I don’t mind birthdays, but I’ve long thought that, really, the mother is the person to be celebrated—the one who heaved and wailed and pushed. She won’t see this, but she’s who I bless.

 


 

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