A small pine

I've been feeling particularly homesick of late. Largely related to my birthday I suspect. Birthdays in my family were treated rather like your own personal Christmas, with all the rampant commercialism that implies (i.e. presents!). You'd wake on on the morn of your birthday and excitedly walk (ok, run) through to the living room where you'd find the couch adorned with gifts in all shapes and sizes - and all for you. I sure I was an extremely selfish child, something I think I've spent a long time in the days since then trying to make up for.

Anyway, with the benefit of hindsight, brought about by my advancing years, I can look back and see that it wasn't just the sheer materialism of the day that made it special, rather it was an occasion for the whole family to get together and celebrate. Brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, my grandmother, and somewhere in the midst of it, trying to hold everything together was my Mum, whirling about in a furious burst of energy that was simultaneously awesome and utterly terrifying to behold, trying to make sure that everyone had fun - or else! The family getting together wasn't a rare event. For the most part everyone lived within 1km radius (and even now, I'm the only one who's strayed any great distance), so it was rare for much time to pass before we'd all catch up with one another. But still, birthdays were special somehow, a particular ritual to be shared, with all the old familiar tics and foibles brought to bear once more.

It still feels strange, to wake up on my birthday and find no presents waiting, no family congregating. I don't find myself sad, per se, thinking about it, more wistful and reflective.

Things change after all.