Birthdays and Spirits

On March 9, 1958, our world was graced with the birth of a baby girl in upstate New York, just outside of Albany. That little girl, who wasn't so little at 9 pounds, was my mom, Dena Cucinelli, although she was Dena Colleen Pickerall at the time. Dena would eventually move to California with her mom - my Gram - and grow up to be a beautiful woman in her own right, and would eventually have children of her own. Later in her life, Mom would meet my Dad, and fall in love and marry, and she moved back to the east coast, leaving behind her beloved Southern California and Mexican food, much to her chagrin. Within a few short years, they adopted me when I was just 8 weeks old, as Mom's birthday present to Dad. Such is the very abbreviated story of a contented life so sadly cut short.

I say that the world was graced with Mom, and perhaps that is hyperbole, but for the people who knew and loved her, we were all truly graced with her presence, her love and affection, and her genuine kindness. Mom is proof that goodness and love do in fact sustain a legacy.

I wonder sometimes, as we pass from this temporal phase to the eternal, in whatever form that may take, what happens to birthdays and do they have a significance other than to the friends and loved ones who remain. Are the dimensions of time and place even relevant when life is eclipsed? I suppose this may be too much for a Golden Retriever to comprehend, but it makes me wonder nonetheless.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

 And I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go
Every moment marked with apparitions of your soul
I'm ever swiftly moving, trying to escape this desire
The yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
The yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
 - Sarah McLachlan