Secrets and traditions

As stated in my first post ... I was born on Friday the 13th in room no. 13. I wasn't planed and was conceived somewhere in Croatia, while my parents were on their vacation (how my grandmother used to tell the story). My mother was already a few months in when she got married though she kept on sharing another story as to how she entered her marriage pure and untouched. I'll let you decide on which story to believe. :)

I am not big on parties though I do not mind the attention. It does make me feel a bit awkward but I do not try to show it. It's a mix of emotions. Craving the attention but sometimes not knowing how to handle it and on other days just finding it a bit bothersome.

For the last 15 years ... when the people leave, the cake settles in my belly, and the lights go off I sit on my couch in my ugly home t-shirt and read a poem. It is my own tradition. Just my own. It was written by Janez Menart and published in 1960. This is a poor try at the translation ... then again some things should stay in their mother language. You can find the original here.

Croquis

Coffeeshop. Table: marble, cold, grey -
a metaphor comparable to life.
In my glass - cognac, well below the edge;
and a small splatter where it spilled.

My finger is the brush and the splatter my canvas;
drawing lazily: a house, a tree,
above the house a sun, and a bench in front of it
and a flower blooming next to a flower.

And a small road that sticks to the house,
and a beautiful woman, that lays mid the flowers ...

But then the waiter reaches politely in front of me,
picks everything up and wipes the table clean.

And I watch him carrying his tray
how he swings that cloth here and there
and almost sadly I yell after him:
"Waiter, one more cognac, please!"

Secrets are not meant to be passed along, so I can't tell who had a birthday 2 days ago ... But traditions are meant to be shared. Vse najboljše. :)