Today’s my birthday. For the last six years, I’ve felt guilty for having a birthday at all. The only thing I can say about having a birthday on September 11th is that everyone remembers it now. Not that it mattered. I have not observed my birthday on my birthday since 2001. Whatever celebrating I did took place apologetically on the 10th or the 12th.
Last year and 2002 were the worst days to have a September 11th birthday. On my twenty-ninth birthday, the ground felt haunted. No one smiled all day, and who could blame them. The surreal memories of that day overwhelmed evereyone. Hardly a good day to whoop it up. And last year, I felt like this.
Today, though the day is gray and cool, I feel like it’s my birthday. This day will always mark a terrible event, but it is also a good day. I’m having a few local friends over to celebrate (the whole Tuesday thing made it necessary for Smokestack to come down last weekend, and my intrepid friend and I always celebrate our Virgohood together). I’m looking forward to it.
It’s my birthday! Woo hoo! OK, it still feels weird to say that on September 11th. It is also starting to feel right.