It’s a weird feeling. One parent’s birthday is the same as the other’s death day. The odds, quite rare I suppose. With a 1 in 365 chance, it is a coincidence that Nagesh and I would never have imagined as we said “happy birthday mom” every year.
On September 14, two scenes flash before my eyes. Dad entering the house with a bunch of yellow flowers after his morning walk, surprising mom as she got our breakfast ready. Several years later, on a Sunday morning, Dad sitting up against pillows in the hospital bed, his frail hands holding the newspaper. He could barely talk and I wonder if the date on the newspaper registered in his still-alert mind. That same evening, while relatives and friends popped by to visit him and stood around the hospital corridors, some reluctantly greeting mom on her birthday, he was mercifully released.
Twelve years on, “happy birthday mom” comes with less pain. Still, dad, always missed. A treasured memory.
arathimy 
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