Poetry

I spoke to my parents yesterday for the requisite happy birthday phone call.  Before I could even finish the second syllable in hello, my mother exuberantly pointed out, "You're not born yet."  Subtext for I don't know why we're making such a big fuss, 48 years ago you were still in my womb. 48 years ago you were still entirely mine.

My father, who was never the most eloquent orator has gotten harder to decode as age plays tricks with his motor skills.  What started out as a version of"Thank you for coming." became truncated when he  realized I hadn't visited, and quickly morphed into "Thank you for letting us have you."  His misfiring neurons created poetry.  I responded with a heart felt, "You're welcome."