:: Time to wish

And so the clock touched twelve.
'Happy birthday,' I told myself mechanically. My mirrored image―hair wet, eyes swollen with exhaustion and want of sleep―showed nothing different between the passing of age. But my mirrored mind spun, its sundry reflections nimble with the landmark changes of the past year.

My first without my grandfather.
My first without the familiar contentment of a solid relationship.
My first without a cake.

I ached suddenly―melancholy can be emotional cynaide, and I felt the easy pleasures of the last few days slip away. I ached because my memories are still potent and raw, brewing dreams of monoxide-fumes in the recesses of my old injuries.

I don't care for the cake―I don't take pride in the childish ritual of candle-blowing―I don't wish to trouble anyone to cook anything special, to buy me presents, to even remember―but the missing symbols get to me like a knife in a gut.

The fact that my old hero is no longer around to bellow "When are you getting old enough to buy your own cake?".
The fact that the birthday wishes from close friends and family can't really rival that from a lover.
The fact that every year is one year less.

I cried myself into my birthday―not for sadness, not because of self-pity, but because tears have a way of clearing up the suffocating uselessness of bridled emotions. I cried, and then I was bright again with guarded hope.

***

In the morbid wisdom of Sylvia Plath:

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am only alive by accident.

***

Still, to all those to did try―you know who you are―those who made me laugh, those who made me drink and eat with fitting abandonment, and those who were thoughtful enough to search for gifts just to mark my existence with your beauty, thank you.