Today Is My Birthday!
Today Is My Birthday!
by Sara Gutfreund
Today is my birthday. I am ninety years old.
My children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have just left. My party is over. The room is littered with ribbons and balloons. Half of the pink and white ice cream cake is melting on the table beside me. No one really felt like eating it here; not even Shira, who loves ice cream. I think it's because of that biting antiseptic smell that seems to permeate hospital rooms.
I can see my reflection in the window now, but I cannot recognize myself. I am old. I have been old for a long time. When I was young and naïve I used to say that I was the kind of person who would never grow old. "After all," I would say with a practiced wink, "it's the inside that counts." But that was before my skin wrinkled into hundreds of “laughter” lines. That was before my body ached and my memory began to ebb.
It's funny what I do remember now. I carry inside me my first glimpse in the mirror as a kalla. I can see my shining eyes framed by wisps of white lace. Even now, seventy years later, I can feel the bouquet of pale, pink roses in my arms; the softness of the petals, the heady aroma of beginnings.
The kalla in my memory doesn't appreciate her grace. Instead, she worries about hundreds of irrelevant details, about situations that will never happen, about conversations long forgotten.
And now that my· husband is gone, I remember him under the shadows of the chuppa. And I can't figure out why I remember it now that he is gone. Why didn't I laugh more all those years, and forgive sooner? How I yearn for one more morning at the breakfast table. One more Shabbos table together...
I wipe away a stray tear and look down at my legs; useless legs that shrink faster each day. And now that longer walk, I remember the last steps that I took. Months ago, I got out of bed and walked to the window to say Modeh Ani. My knees hurt me. My back ached. The sky was gray. And inside I felt complaints welling up, pushing to be heard.
If only I had known what a blessing it is to walk, even with aching knees. I can still feel my feet padding slowly on the carpet. I can still remember the birds that chirped outside my window, the frown that formed on my face, the smooth coldness of the window against my worn cheek.
Then I turn to the windowsill in my hospital room. There are framed pictures of my family looking back at me. I look at my daughters, now grown with grandchildren of their own whom I can no longer hold.
I remember what it felt like to cradle them in my arms. Their soft skin that smelled like milk and powder and fresh, white sheets drying in the sun. I remember how they opened and closed their tiny fists and searched for my face. I remember how tired I was. How quickly lost patience with their toddler antics and endless noise.
Now I ache for one more moment to hold them, just one more minute of their babyhood. But it is gone, long buried beneath the years.
Looking up from the pictures, I can I see the last rays of sun falling softly through the branches of the willow tree. The light fades, shadow by shadow, I turn around and watch my birthday cake melt. I begin to daven sobbing openly in the twilight.
Please Hashem, give back my life, each day, just the way You handed it to me. Give me one more chance, and this time I will know what I have.
"This time I will know what I have. This time I will know what I have." I hear myself whispering over and over. And suddenly, there is a little hand on my cheek and I awaken with a start. The dream ends, and I am once again a thirty-year-old housewife. I fell asleep sitting up on the couch! My three boys have turned the living room upside down during my nap. How long was I asleep?
There are crushed Cheerios on the floor, and Lego blocks strewn all the way to "the kitchen. My daughter's hands are sticky, and I scoop her up to wash them in the sink. I contemplate the sink full of dirty dishes and the delighted faces of the boys who are making a train with the dining room chairs.
I stare to wonder at the mess, at the beautiful, endless mess. I listen carefully to the noise of my children playing, full of laughter and quarrels, an ordinary afternoon.
And then my husband walks through the door. He is carrying flowers for my birthday. Today is my birthday. I am thirty years old. And I have been granted gift: a precious, priceless gift
Today, I know what have.
Winter 2004/5765 Jewish Times