Birthday

It's almost instinctive – you count the number of candles on the birthday cake, and you start to gauge the age of its owner.

Which makes perfect sense. I should have forty on mine yesterday. With time, I learn to tell my friends that chronological age has nothing to do with one's real age. During the lunch conversation yesterday, my friend didn't believe that I remain young, and then looked me straight at a scar on my face.

Before she asked, I knew she wanted an explanation or the story behind it. I smiled cheerfully. "Oh good," I said. "My daughter is getting more energetic and charges ahead boldly. She waved her hand and scratched my face few weeks ago. You know, a nine-month-old has literally great leaps of faith, causing wounds here and there. Five minutes after the tenth topple, she's ready for number eleven."

"True. A kid's wound heals and vanishes quickly, unlike yours," my friend reminded me. "And perhaps that is the difference between Jasmine's wound and her father's scar. When you're no longer young, the wound lasts."