On birthdays

I'm afraid. I'm afraid that as I get older, birthdays will start to lose meaning. My father, and most of his friends, turn 50 this year. Do they care? Does it mean anything to them? Will my annual renaissances start to blur and run together, watercolors on an ever-shrinking blank page? Or will I continue to feel each pulse, each sweeping revolution of the hand? I can't tell for which I'm hoping anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Will I make it to 50? A few birthdays ago, I didn't think so. I didn't want to. I didn't want to make it to 25. What changed? Me?

Last time I saw my grandmother, she said she didn't want to hit triple digits (keep me off the machines). She married my grandfather in 1969. I wonder how he feels about that? Will he be the one to sign the forms for her? How many birthdays until that happens? I think she's 78 deep already.

In November, I'll hit the post again, pass go, collect my 200. Maybe I'll know then.