|"Happy Birthday", oil, by Jeanne Illenye|
I sometimes wonder who else, or what else, was born on my birthday. I’ve never researched it, but perhaps some celebrities were born on November 26, 1941 – some famous people who transformed the way we live, or looked into the mysteries of life, or let us in on secret truths, or just sang songs that people loved. In fact, maybe millionsof important people were born on that day, people who were special in small ways, but special nonetheless. And what about animals, like birds, or bears, or the smallest singing insects? How many of them were newly made on the same day I was made? And cells. Weren’t a countless number of cells sent into existence on November 26, 1941? And how many rainstorms and blizzards and snowflakes and breezes were brought to life on my birthday, and new ways for the sun to shine, and new kinds of sunsets? And what about birthdays on this very day? Shouldn’t we celebrate an immeasurable number of births this day, this hour, this moment? Shouldn’t we throw parties almost continuously?