I'm Adelimo, and this is The Slowdown.

I love birthdays.

I love my birthday, and I love celebrating other people's birthdays.

To me, it's important to witness another year gone by.

To recognize what we've been through, to hold up the glass of champagne,

and say, yes, to whatever is next.

On that one day in March, I tell strangers it's my birthday, I throw myself parties,

I've even baked myself a cake.

Today's poem is a meditation on birthdays and their significance,

and how celebrating the day you were made is one way of recognizing that you're still here.

Birthday by Kathleen Rooney.

At first, birthdays were reserved for kings and saints,

but it's rainbow sprinkles and face painting for everybody these days.

The best way to avoid having your birthday ruined is to avoid having any expectations for your birthday.

Without the delineation of years, time would become an expanse of open water,

horizonless, shark-filled, one of my biggest fears.

A rush of orange crush that sparkle on the tongue,

and make a wish shouted at the top of tiny lungs are a couple of things I recall,

balloons and streamers and the first piece of cake,

conical hats with elastic chin straps.

Is a birthday party an instance of what Durkheim meant by collective effervescence,

profane tasks cast away for a sacred second?

...