This is a photograph of my father holding me January 7th 1977, minutes after I was born on his 31st birthday. Growing up sharing a birthday with my dad was special and unusual and it just felt right- like it was meant to be. When he passed away 10 years ago having a birthday to myself was lonely. I find that December 3rd, the anniversary of his death is the time that I mourn and travel inward. In a lot of ways December 3rd feels like my new birthday- a day that we still share and that changes and challenges me every year.
So on January 7th I celebrate. Celebrate for two. And I love this photograph. And I love my family and friends for knowing me so well and spoiling me so rotten.
I am also caught quite off guard by how old I have gotten. I am not complaining, it is just surprising.