Time after Time

My birthday is on Thanksgiving.

Not around Thanksgiving, but on Thanksgiving. Every year. Never fails. This has something to do with the strange timekeeping methodology on my planet, but I find it rather convenient, as I never have to work on my birthday. See? Very nice.

A similar side effect from this strange space-time continuum thingy that's unfortunately to blame for my insufferable condition as a human (a terrible clerical error sometime in the evolutionary past is to blame, I'm sure, as I am sure G-d Himself will fix it as soon as He gets around to it), make all communication with me impossible three days before and three days after. My children (G-d bless their innocent little souls) are fully aware of this and know to call the Monday after the aforementioned American holiday to retroactively (not belatedly) wish me a happy birthday--a matter both very much appreciated by me, and expedient to both, as they get to save on the gift they didn't give me because they could not see me. Well, according to my calculations, that would have been last Monday, otherwise discernable on your calendar as 28-Nov-2005, or the incongruous 11/28/05. but NO!!!!! Did they call? No. Did they write? No. Fax? No.Telegraph, telex, smoke signal? no, No, NO! I'm sure I am to blame somehow--or perhaps this is what happens to parents when their children are old enough to build a life outside the home, with friends of their very own with whom to spend their own time--or this is what happens to fathers when ex-wives get new boyfriends with kids and the new kids and the old kids get along great and they all decide to spend the weekend together... dunno.

Perhaps I will not mind. Perhaps I know what this is all like from the kids' point of view because I already lived it as a child when my own parents separated and then divorced. Perhaps this is how I pay for what I did to my mother, who moved out, moved away, and I thought she moved away from me and hated her for it. And maybe I will just drink to forget, like grandpa drank after grandma left.

And maybe I will write To Have and Have Not, and then I'll shoot myself.

or maybe i'll simply be a single drop of rain.