Today is the longest day of the year, even though it has the same twenty-four hours as every other day. But today is the day with the most hours of sunlight, which really accounts for its claiming to be longer than any other day. Starting tomorrow, the sun starts its journey south and the days slowly begin to grow shorter.
I plan to stay up until the sky is completely dark, which is about ten o’clock in my neighborhood. I plan to revel in the daylight and the glint of sun on the river and its shine on the trees.
Today would have been my Mother’s eighty-seventh birthday, had she lived to see it. She was always pleased that her birthday was on the longest day of the year, although I’m not sure if she celebrated it longer or harder. Rather, she seemed to find solace that her birthday coincided with some calendar event, as if people would be more ready to remember it.
I certainly did. Even though we never lived close to each other once I left home at twenty-one, I always touched base with a card and a gift on her birthday. But then I like to think I would have done the same, even if she had been born on August 20 or November 3, days that are not consequential for the purpose of marking the seasons.
So this is the longest day in more ways than one. It’s a seasonal thing and it’s a personal thing. Happy birthday, Mother; and I hope you’re celebrating with friends in Heaven.
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