Bittersweet birthdays

The Revolutionary turned 20 this week.  Last week I asked her about how she would celebrate. 

"I probably won't do anything.  I'll just wish myself Happy Birthday, like I wished myself Happy New Year as I sat all by myself at midnight on Dec 31."  Bravado mixed with self-pity.  I know that tone.  I think I've used it myself on more than one occasion.

"Well," I proffered, "we can at least have tea together on the day, can't we?  I want to make you a cake."   But that was where we left it.

The day arrived and I sent a congratulatory text message in the morning.  I finally heard from her in the middle of the afternoon and before I knew it, I was hosting her and 5 friends for dinner.  When I caught the birthday girl alone for a few minutes, I asked her how her day had been.  She said she had had a great day.  All day.  Except when she first woke up.

"I cried.  I don't know why, but I cried". 

I don't know why she cried either, but I feel like I can sense it.    A complex mix of joy and pain.  The celebration of birth infused with the pain of being abandoned.  But birthdays aren't just about marking that day you were born, they also mark annual growth.  How much more bittersweet then is the joy of being 'all-growed' up but not having a mum, not even a memory of one, to be proud of you?