Parents celebrate the early one's even though we may well be more content snuggling in our cribs. When we know what they mean, it is a sin to not celebrate. We wait for the day each year for many things: gifts, parties, photos. Our spouses find them to be special occasions for love. Kids make them irrelevant until they grow old enough to buy us gifts (with our own money). Later one's remind us of greying hair and shriveling skin.
There is always that first one without the person whose it is. They are painful and make the void bigger. Every year thereafter, the date lingers for attention even though there is not much to be done. The reminders on a phone, calendar, or whatever else served as a reminder continue with the purposefulness of a sunrise. The day joins many others as leftovers of a life. The feeling is not unlike that of a house which was once home: meant a lot to us when we lived there, but is now a building like any other; except, means (much) more than the rest.
They don't fade at once, but are forgotten in some years. They keep appearing until all the people who remembered it are gone themselves. Long before that though, the day is likely a happy birthday for someone else.
