The First Birthday

Kiddie Park with Mom

Her birthday. The first time I couldn’t sing to her, take her to lunch, buy her a gift she didn’t need.   I knew it would be hard.   I braced myself, preparing for it months ahead. I had it all figured out.  I set the whole day aside. I indulged myself.  I ate cake in her honor. A nice cake. Her favorite kind? I went with chocolate chip bundt.  But it might’ve been lemon. I wasn’t sure. I forgot to ask her. There were too many other pressing questions.  Questions I kept trying to squeeze in: Tell me more about your childhood, and the day your father died.  Tell me about the time you saw Frank Sinatra and your first apartment with Dad and that ugly wallpaper you hated so much. The wallpaper that showed up again in New York, in your next apartment, the one Dad picked out. What did you do when you saw it?  Laugh, cry, scream?  A combination of all three?  Tell me again about the day I was born.  In an Oldsmobile.  In the parking lot of County General.  How exactly did that happen?  And does it explain my own tendency to be overly-dramatic at times?  If I’d been born the normal way, inside the hospital, do you think I’d have a calmer take on life? 

I asked, she answered. The closer she got, the more I wanted to know.  She didn’t mind.  She sat there, smiling through her pain.  No question was too personal.  Nothing was off-limits.  My whole life, she told me whatever I needed to know.  No holds barred. In fact, after she was gone she kept telling me… in my dreams.  I asked, she answered.   In her own way.  Sometimes wordless.  No call-waiting.   I summoned her forth.   I begged for a visit.  A sign.  Anything.  Sometimes she made an appearance. She smiled at me, a peaceful smile.  Otherworldly.  Pain-free.  Tell me what to do! I demanded.  Tell me how to survive this.  Tell me how to bring you back.   She gave me a hug, she touched my shoulder, she was gone again. Out of town.  Out of here.  I understood. She always did like to stay busy. And so, on her birthday, I ate cake, but I didn’t blow out the candles.   Some candles burn out on their own.   On her birthday, I paraded around the backyard with my sons, singing that Van Morrison song.  A personal anthem of mine.  It spelled out her name gloriously. G - L - O - R - I  - A.  On her birthday, we threw a noisy bash.  The guest of honor couldn’t make it.  But I’d like to think she was there in spirit.

(written in 2000)