Forty-four minus two

In two days I celebrate the forty-fourth anniversary of my birth.

Counting down to that day, I am posting birthday memories.

What about the birthdays I don’t remember? I’ve been scouring my brain trying to remember what happened on one day, repeated for (almost) 44 years. I was obviously present for all of those days. My earliest memories, of course, no one expects me to remember them. It appears that the most memorable moments were from when I was around six, up until I turned 21… and then a few handful of memories from the last 10 years or so.

There’s a gap in-between.

A gap that can’t be explained by alcohol. I knew you were at least thinking it so don’t deny it. Well… can’t entirely be explained by alcohol.

This post is for the missing birthdays. The birthdays were nothing much of note happened. Or, rather, the birthdays when the expected happened. In spite of the lack of specific memories, I’m sure that every birthday I’ve had was spent with family or friends. I’m sure that I received gifts and cards, carefully selected by my friends, along with good wishes. I’m sure there was cake, and probably ice cream, and probably booze of some sort or another. Because that’s what most people remember – the good times, the company, the feelings.

And most of my birthdays have left me feeling… well-loved. Even if I’m fuzzy on the details.