Today is my birthday. I’ve had many birthdays. Some were shared with my sister, 13 months older. Some were alone. Many were with my family and friends. On my 29th I threw myself an “I’ll-never-be-twenty-something-again” party. Fun. But seven years ago everything about how I feel about having a birthday changed. Seven years ago on December 17, my father, Sheldon Wolpin, died.
I actually have mixed feelings about it. Part of me wants to believe that it was a coincidence. But another part of me doesn’t believe in coincidences. That part of me is flattered that my father chose to die on my birthday. I feel honored. We will forever be entwined in a strange life/death relationship.
So my day is bitter sweet. Instead of enjoying attention from family and friends, I spend the day (like most days) remembering the funny, considerate, handsome, well-loved man, that was my father.
The candles I light today will be in remembrance of him. My birthday can take a back seat. I miss him every day.
Books by Marilyn Wolpin 