I find birthdays rather depressing — you just get older and older until you die. My sister always reminds me that there is something worse, though. She and I approximated the same birthday, I was born on 9 March, she was born on 11 March, 11 years after me. I always knew her birthday, and I always knew exactly how old she was, and I got to watch my baby sister grow up. Here she is, with my father:
I think of her every 11th of March.
She died when she was only 33.
See? The thing that’s worse than birthdays is not having any any more, and she’s always reminding me of that.