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My father

My father

When people ask me when it was that David and I got married, the only way I can remember the exact date of that Wednesday we eloped is by thinking of my father’s birthday, which is May 17 (today, as I type this). Because that year, Dad’s birthday fell on a Thursday, and I remember how hard it was for me not to mention anything to him and the family when I saw them to celebrate, seeing as David and I had gone and gotten married the very day before.

And here we are, who knows how many years later — 3? — and all the Maybies (what I call the extensive list of family and friends born in May) are being celebrated. My younger sister, my brother-in-law, my father, and several friends. It’s the month I am sure to keep a stock of birthday cards in my drawer. There’s always one or two in the fray of Maybies who slip through the cracks of my calendar.

This morning, to celebrate my father’s special day (of all the Maybies, he is the closest to me), we met up at Bread & Cie for breakfast. The highlight of Dad’s morning was finding a parking meter that had 1:44 left. “This can’t be,” he said, giggling into his chest, for in truth, he expected nothing less from the Universe on his birthday. Dad will spend the afternoon delivering meals for Special Delivery. In the rain. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy Birthday to all of the Maybies, and especially to you, Dad.

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