I closed the old lady’s eyes, already a slightly violaceous hue from her heart stopping a half hour ago.

“Did you want an autopsy?” I gently asked the dutiful middle-aged son.

“No, that’s okay.”

Awesome.  Less paperwork.

I was already an hour-and-a-half late to my little girl’s birthday party.  Work was busy and someone called in sick this weekend.  I scrambled for my coat, handed off the pager, and ran my ass out the door.

The party was pretty busy.  My almost five-year old daughter and the other kids were seated in a circle around a costumed entertainer that my wife paid for.  The husbands and I stood at a distance trying to quietly determine if the princess-for-hire was actually pretty or not.  Male Pavlovian pattern recognition tried to reconcile the fact that the shiny-costumed woman was probably not going to strip at this party.

It was good to see my brother, and his beautiful wife and doll-like daughter.  I caught up with Kevin and his winter schemes.  I saw the same person who fell asleep at the Chrismas party sleeping in the same sitting position again; poor guy works too hard.  The dysfunctional couple (whom I specifically asked not to be invited) with their destructive swearing kids were there to my dismay.  Anklebiters abounded.

My nearly five-year old daughter seemed remarkably taller and thinner already.  The evermore distinctive soft planes and curves in her face remind me of how fast she’s growing.  Sometimes I try to predict how she’ll be when she’s an adult from her pouncy personality and playful speech.

Before we knew it, the cake was cut, the candles were out, and the princess loot was secured.  Shortly after, the little princess was a sleeping beauty.

What was left was a room full of unwrapped boxes and gifts while a whole year’s worth of “when’s my birthday going to be” was finally wrapped up.