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So yesterday was mother's day. My father was born on mother's day, 1946. Today, he would've celebrated his 57th birthday, had he lived through last summer. I am 24. I was born on my mother's birthday. She was 24. Today should be significant. Today should have great meaning. This is a conjunction, is it not? The stars are lined up in a very odd way. I had a chance to use this to my advantage, but I knew better. Or rather, there was something I had to cancel this date, because of this date. Date. So where was my mother for mother's day, father's birthday. She ran. She sounded delerious on the phone. Either exhausted, drunk, or happy as a skunk. She ran to the casino. Where she goes when she wants to have fun. Where she goes to escape. I don't blame her. She'd probably thought out the date's significance better than I had. It caught me unaware. Somewhat unaware. My father's birthday. My conscience, his voice inside my head, ever since forever, ever more now that he's gone. I should celebrate this day. I should embrace the power locked away inside the numbers, inside the forward motion of time that collides and means something to someone. Most of all me. It's a monday night. A fun day night. I can drink myself silly. I can go out on the town and see who takes me in. I can drive off into the sunset, whereupon my car will catch fire from overheating and I will die in the ensuing enferno. The day the day the day. The special days that are forgotten, or ignored or are considered special no longer. What happens to someone's birthday when they die?