Different birthdays

Today, there are plenty of birthdays to celebrate.
A glass of wine filled, Facebook congratulations sent,
little attentions exchanged
kisses,
people we love, close by
some acquaintances at further distance
It is a good day.

But there are birthdays we no longer mark with cake.
Today eighty-five years—we don't celebrate.
My father, the family music DJ,
left us six years ago,
but the music had faded earlier,
the careful curation of party playlists
were already quiet.

Parkinson’s held him long before he left.
Still, he is here—in my love for music playlists,
his voice in my mind sings along with some 70ies hit,
in the slide of light through a photo he once took
of my childhood.

Tomorrow one hundred twenty-four years—we don’t celebrate.
My grandmother,
always a carré confituurke within reach.
I plucked daisies for her from her own garden
and she put them in a water glass on the kitchen table.
Later, I sat at the foot of her bed in the care home—
reading or watching Sunday TV.
A quiet closeness that still warms my hands.

Some birthdays are counted with a toast
Others, in memory.
Today, we celebrate those here—
and gently carry those who aren’t.