I hit the birth date jackpot.

My mother. My sister. Both born in February. On the same day. The 20th. Coincidence. A statistical rarity. I’d not want to be born in February. A cold, cold month. In Chicago. Where the entire family was born. I much prefer September. The waning of summer. Traces of fall in the air. Especially at night. My day. The 11th. Now known as 9/11. A day of infamy. My birthday shared with D. H. Lawrence and O. Henry. Two of my favorite writers. My brother. Born the last day of August. Didn’t want to wait for September. He always was in a hurry. My father arrived in the darkest, bleakest month of all. November. Can’t remember the exact date. Maybe November births are suicide prone. Wonder if there are such statistics. Probably are. Anyway, dad took his own life. In April. I’ll bet the happiest people alive were born in September. Most likely on the 11th day.  Got the right day and the right month. I hit the birth date jackpot. Lucky me. –Jim Broede