Untitled

We all have our September the 11th story. Where we were, what we were doing. Each of has a story of profound grief or incredulous gratitude or something in between.

Then there are those who had their September the 11th story long before 2001. For them, it was called "my birthday". But one tragic day their license to be merry and joyful and self-indulgent and egocentric got revoked when madmen decided to fly planes in a manner that they should not have been flown.

And just like that, it ceased to be just these folks' special day. It became the world's day, and despite many valiant efforts to demonstrate resiliency, it's still honestly a not-so-very-happy place on the calendar. It's as though these individuals have had to sacrifice the blatant displays of birthday bliss that the rest of us are allowed, in order to remain respectful of a world's grieving process.

So to all of you born on this date (Ms. Valerie... Bryan...): for the gift of your life and its quiet reminder that it does go on, September 11th Birthday Babies, you've just been added to The Thanks Ranks.

Happy Birthday. It's not a wish. It's a command.