At childhood's end

You know your childhood is over when you (in mercenary materialistic Western [broke grad student] fashion) begin to count up the number of people who will probably send you birthday money and realize that they are all dead.

This happened to me while (of all cold-hearted things) I was working on my budget the other night. I sat wondering if I could count on any other odd income this month, and I remembered the birthday hovering around the bend--
and then I recalled that all those wonderful old people, who sent small bills with love and shaky handwriting, are all gone now.
Rocked me a bit--still recovering. What a silly way to miss someone. But what a permanent reminder.

My father's father, Poppy, spelled my name wrong on every card I ever got from him: either one and two e's or two l's and one e, but never the whole thing all correct. I used to look for it on the envelopes, eagerly awaiting the sight of his forward-slanting all-caps handwriting, to see if maybe he caught it this time. He never did, and he likely never knew the difference, but it made me laugh. He made me laugh. And I miss him. Seven years later, and I miss him.

This will be my first birthday away from home, away from my for-now-home, even, as I'll be in another state at a friend's wedding. This will be an excellent lesson in selflessness, and also, probably, my first grown-up birthday, since grown-ups do not get to have a day of their own. I don't even know if I'll have facebook access. Dearth of festal cheer, indeed (O American culture, what a truly bizarre thing you are).