I am six today. I am walking toward a strip of beach on Midway Island, a place that is as far away from anything or anyone I’ve ever known as could be. My mother, Cindy, and my stepfather, Bill, are walking with me to the beach to a gazebo, where the promise of a very large birthday party waits.
The day is warm. The sky is clear. The ocean stretches for miles in every direction. Suddenly there are dozens of my parents U.S. Navy friends. A barbecue burns and there’s plenty of beer and wine. Music is playing somewhere, probably provided by my parents’ friend Gordon, who is a disc jockey for the island radio station. Gordon would later take me from Lindbergh Field to my first San Diego home on the back of a long, gleaming chopper.
I open presents and cheer myself. At six, everyone is selfish. More presents are better than less. Unwrapping and expectations are the only thing I recall as the sun set into the ocean. It was well past 10 p.m.
And up comes the moon.
This bright, massive blue and white orb rises up from the ocean. By now, my parents and their friends are well into the last of the alcohol and whatever is smoked. I’m staring at the moon for an eternity; a scene from the cover of a science fiction novel. The moon will never be this big again.
Tomorrow, I turn 41.
We are the only species that puts a moral premium on time. We are the only ones that commemorate time with scrapbooks, marble sculptures, NASCAR plates and etched memories. Birthdays matter because no other species can wax so fondly on its existence or, for that matter, prattle over the concept of minutes and hours. They have the mission of survival. They mark time by eating, breeding and continuing their species. We mark time with pin the tail on the donkey and figuring out another way to play “quarters.”
There is solace in marking this time. A look into the reflective pool. I view every birthday as a little boy on a Midway Island beach with a Lunar Goddess ascending; a furious, magnificent rock conert. A 37-year-old echo. An etched memory. I am six. I am eighteen. I am 41. I’ll be 100.
And there will be the moon.
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There’s a new way to play quarters? Sweet.
Humans are also the only species that can show appreciation to those who take the time to think about time.
Rock the 40s man, but don’t forget to tell us how you did it. :)
Happy Birthday.
well put!!!
That was lovely. Happy birthday, my friend, and many many more. =]