During my younger years, my mom made a big deal out of birthdays. We wore birthday hats, blew up balloons, played games, opened lots of presents and stuffed ourselves with cake and ice cream. It seemed like a sacred moment when we made a wish before blowing out the number of candles that coincided with our age. Birthdays have always seemed magical to me.

When I turned sixteen years old, my dad gave me a beautiful birthday card that he picked out himself. It had a picture of a lovely young girl holding a small white bird in her hands. She stood in a green meadow that was surrounded by blue sky. Her blue and white dress matched the crown of flowers she wore. Her long hair was gently tousled by the wind. Colorful flowers and butterflies surrounded her. When I looked inside the card I was surprised to find words that were handwritten by my father. This was certainly not his style. He seldom gave out birthday cards and if he did, they were humorous, not mushy. The words that really surprised me were