I turned 22 today.

Technically I didn't turn 22 yet. I think I was born at 6:30 am or thereabouts - since I now live in Germany, I'm still practically 21 until 1:30 or so. Still, it would have been enough for my mother, who, if she were here, would have put up signs on the kitchen wall and greeted me, standing sleepily in her bathrobe, with "21 years ago today..." as she pressed me to her chest.

My father - after he'd woken up, had a decent amount of coffee and read a good bit of the paper - would have also been capable of nostalgia. At some point during the day, they both would decide to reminisce about the exact bloody details of my birth, and I would learn something new, probably.

It would have been expectant, as birthdays are - like New Year's and Halloween. "This will be my best birthday ever," I said as a child filled with certitude; as I grew, I learned that very often the best birthday ever is entirely out of your control, that no matter which theme you pick for your party, sometimes the family German Shepherd will still insist on vomiting in the middle of the obstacle course.

I never knew I would be in Germany on the day I turned 22. I don't think I ever really thought about turning 22, to be honest - I know I had high hopes for 21, but 22 seems insignificant.

Still, it's significant to others. Nader took a taxi home from the lab to arrive home last night at precisely midnight, and I have to end this now, because my little brother - who would, on my birthdays at home, still have been asleep downstairs for several hours - is on a plane, circling somewhere above Munich, waiting for me to pick him up and show him where I live now.