The Day After

For a moment, it felt as if I were still asleep and hadn’t opened my eyes yet. In the darkness there were little white specks flying around, and at first, I thought it was part of a dream. But the dream quickly turned into a nightmare as soon as my eyes opened to the harsh noontime sun straight above and I heard the all too familiar sound of Down the Street Bully Brad’s menacing laughter nearby.

His gravelly voice reached my ears as I wiped what I thought was sweat from my forehead. It was blood, and lots of it. He jeered sarcastically, “Hey Spitball! Didn’t your daddy teach you how to dodge a stick when you’re riding a bike?”

Spitball. I didn’t really like that name. Bully Brad gave me that nickname the very first day of third grade when his wad of wet paper hit my neck and slid down the back of my shirt. The nickname stuck to me for the rest of the school year and, though I didn’t know it at the time, until I graduated from high school. 

His laughter trailed off behind him as he walked away, and I assessed my situation. After not being able to dodge the stick tossed into my path, I’d flown over the handlebars, tumbled many times down Flamingo Street, and was currently lying on my back, bleeding from my forehead, both elbows and one knee. And to make matters even worse, my new birthday bike I’d gotten the day before lay on the curb bent beyond repair.

Yesterday was supposed to have been my day. After all, it was my birthday. A birthday is just one day each year and special only for you. Everyone in my family had their own special day all to themselves. But not me. I had to share my birthday with my twin brother Mark – whether I liked it or not. And I didn’t like it. The only good thing about yesterday was getting a new bike. Now it was all broken up. And so was I.

Rolling over, I sat up – then stood, limped over to pick up my bike and started dragging it back up Flamingo and eventually home. I hurt so bad I wasn’t even mad at Bully Brad. All I could think was I’m eight-years old. The day after a birthday really stinks. 

To the day, sixty years later.

I woke up this morning and two thoughts came to my mind. First, I thought about the time Bully Brad threw out a stick in front of me and made me crash my new bike. And second, this year, I didn’t have to celebrate my birthday with my twin brother, I haven’t done that for over fifty years. But I did share it with a person who made it the best birthday ever. 

The Wife.

With the Girly Girls out of town for a soccer tournament, she did everything she could to make the day one I would remember. Sure, she bought me two very nice gifts, and we had a nice lunch and dinner out, but there was one gift she gave that cost no money at all, and was the one I liked the best. She gave me the gift of time alone with just her. If asked, she would say she’s not really anyone special, but I would disagree.

She had taken the week of Spring Break off, just to be home with me. No, we didn’t go to any far away beach destination or even to downtown Atlanta for expensive night on the town. We were just home, puttering around the house, reading books, painting, and just being with each other. I used to think her parents don’t travel because they couldn’t. I was wrong. After this past weekend, I believe they don’t travel because they just enjoy being home together.

The day after my sixty-eighth birthday was even better than the day before. The Wife and I spent the entire day together and even saw a great sci-fi space movie called Project Hail Mary. The Wife loving a sci-fi space movie more than me? Now that’s the best day after birthday present ever. I don’t really know what she has planned for my special day next year, but as long as we spend it together, it will be the best birthday (and the day after) ever.