It's my son's birthday. I have written my blessings, told him again how I took his mother to the hospital and returned threesome. Poured my emotions on and on, remembering how he and his sister played and enjoyed growing up together. And then a stitch in my heart.  This playful sister is now foreclosing all contact with me, her loving father. I catch my breath and lean on my religion, Religion21. Ignorant I am about cause and intent, but whatever they are, they may fade, dissolve, disappear. I know not where my pain is coming from but I am also ignorant about the possibilities for things to turn around,  for love and embrace to claim their place.  And I am ignorant about who might read these lines, and turn to Anati, my beloved daughter, and say: your father, your loving father waits for you -- come to him. My ignorance keep my hope alive.

Religious I am, my prayers may reach their destination. She might call as if the years of estrangement never happened, and say: "Dad, how wonderful it is to celebrate with you my brother's birthday!"   My pain is less, my light is more.