March 17, 2007
I wake up to the raucous clamor of birds in the tree outside my window, black against the white, still morning sky. They don’t do this every day, and my first thought on this, my late father’s birthday, is that they are singing for him. Dad loved birds, and kept track of all he saw from the age of five until he died, aged seventy. I slide my feet into my slippers and go to the kitchen to make coffee, wishing I had the luxury of calling him and saying “Happy birthday” to him, instead of just in my heart.