I was thirty-five years old today. It’s great to have your birthday around Easter. Everything is in bloom as if nature wanted to mark the occasion, and, when it’s a good year, you can even picnic in Central Park.
This is what my mom and I are about to do.
We spread out the blankets and set up our sandwiches, buns, fruit, and drinks. My mother made a chocolate fondant, as she always does. I brought a bottle of champagne. It’s not just my birthday that we’re celebrating. It’s also my mother’s recovery. To be precise, she’s only in remission and she’ll have to wait five years to be considered cured. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that there has been no doubt in the past month that the treatment has worked incredibly well and that now she’s doing a lot better.
I pop the cork and fil
