My Birthday Note

Today, my Mom would wait to the very minute after an acceptable hour because she didn’t want to call too early. She would tell me “Happy Birthday.” Then Mom would tell me how she remembers the day I was born.

Sometimes, Mom would sing Happy Birthday. The last time my Old Man said Happy Birthday was over one of the pay phones they had at a place where I stayed for 30 days. I remember this very well.

I always liked these calls, although, admittedly, I think I took them for granted. I say this because Mom is not around anymore. Neither is The Old Man. They don’t have phones where they live now—but ah, it would be nice to have my phone ring and hear their voices.

I never did much for my birthday. I can’t say any of my birthdays have a special memory. At least, not right now.
Then again, I think I say this every year. And every year, I think about my birthday wish and what I’ll wish for when I blow out my candles.

I don’t want to wish small. I also don’t know if I only get one wish or if I can pack all my wishes in one and send them all up to the great Wish Doctor upstairs and see what comes back to me.

First, I want to wish for health this year. I want to be better this year; and I mean better in every sense of the word. I want to be better educated and better informed. I want to be better about my boundaries and better about my word and my loyalty.
I want to better to myself and to others around me. I want to be better about my mistakes and my past and better about forgiving myself and others as well.

I want to be ready when I blow out the candles. I want to have my wish all packed and ready to go. I want to have this wrapped up tightly, so when the Man Upstairs gets it, maybe He can look down upon me and say, “Okay, kid. You got it.”

I think I’ll wish for mire distance between me and my regrets. I think I’ll wish for my eyes to open a little more so I can see a bit more clearly. I think I’ll wish for the farm and the dream I’ve had about this farm to come true. I’ll wish you could be there the day my farm opens. I want to see your face when you view the barn and the fields and the main house. I’ll want to see your face when the kids come to live at a place that it safe for them to be exactly as they are, which is beautiful.

I think I’ll wish to be more helpful. I’ll wish to improve my boundaries and improve my understanding of others. I’ll wish that I can get through my personal biases. I’ll wish to rid myself of the subconscious programs that no longer serve me well.

I think I’ll wish for the people I love to love me a little more and to love me a little longer. I’ll probably wish for you and your family to be safe and find resolution to whatever it is that may need to be resolved. I’ll wish for this because to me, you are my life and my world, and without you, well . . . life is just lifeless. Know what I mean?

I know I’ll wish for the selfish things like a new boat, a house on the sea, a visit from The Old Man and Mom. I know I’ll wish for business to take off in a new direction. I’ll wish to leave old business behind and for new business to come my way.

I know I’ll wish for peace in my heart.
I want to make peace with me and the things I wish I could remove from my history—most of all, I will wish that I can be the best me possible. Maybe, I’ll wish for a surprise party one day. I never had a surprise party. I never really had a birthday party. At least, not exactly—or one that I can remember.

Maybe I never had one because I never thought anyone would show. Come to think of it, there is a movie I once saw.
The man was sick with cancer. He was alive to see the birth of his son. He was alive for his last birthday, in which, there was a circus in his backyard with animals and clowns and jugglers and everything.
The meaning behind this is when the character was a kid, he told his friends this was going to happen. Only, none of this ever happened and the other kids at school laughed at him. And, so, on his last birthday, the circus came to town. The man, sick with cancer, in a wheelchair, too weak to stand, sat with his child in his lap and told his newborn son, “Never forget this!”

I understood this scene .
Or, maybe I just understood how this relates to me. I certainly know what it feels like to be laughed at. I know what humiliation is.
There are so many things I wanted to create. I just don’t want them to be created so late that I never have the chance to see them through.

Dear Mom and Pop.
I miss you. I wish you were here. There are a few things I would like to show you and some people I would like you to meet.

The rest of the wishes I have are going to be kept a secret. I don’t want to tell anyone because they might not come true.
I know you know what they are and I know you’ll keep them a secret, so it’s okay that I send you this.
I love you. I miss you. And, something I never told you needs to be said right now. Thank you for bringing me into the world.

See you when I close my eyes to make my wish and blow out the candles
Love always

Your son

B—

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