The song spills out of their mouths and
then you make a wish like you do every
single time. Count the candles. There is
one more. You long to see the day your
grandchildren give you a single flame that
encapsulates all your time here. Maybe not.
Blow out the candles. Cut the cake. Look in
the mirror as you laugh and wonder where
that little child has gone. But you think you
know the answer – she slipped away when
the clock struck twelve. Maybe she was lost
when you prayed that you will grow up quickly. You wake up one morning to find the mail on your table. Some are bills, the figures knocking on your skull like hammers. Others, the rejection letters
- you must try again. Another contains plastic, and painfully you remember that you have to break your old pass into two. The key to your house is gold under the light but it is heavier than gold, a burden on your shoulders, a responsibility you
never had before. You step out and you meet people – but how naïve you were to believe that they will be kind, that you had nothing to fear. Their cold smiles chill your bones.
You think about your mother and father, their faces shining down on you like the sun. You want to go home now. You blow out the candles and wished you never had that ardent desire to leave the baby crib.