Birthdays and bewilderment

Each year, on the eve of my birthday, some very dear and thoughtful friends arrive.

We go through the rather moving charade of my leaving them in the bedroom, whilst I busy myself in the kitchen. They produce, for Robert, a beautiful card, just the sort that he himself would have chosen. They enclose his fingers round a pen, and guide it in order for him to “sign” his name. They then “hide” the card, in a drawer which they know I will need to open the first thing in the morning.

In the morning, I fake surprise, pass the card to my dearest, saying “What’s this”, which prompts him to wish me a happy birthday.

When I read the beautiful words printed on the card, when I see his scrawled mark, and the kisses which could have been done by a three year old, I break my heart.

I am doing so now, just writing this.