Birthday

It’s your birthday. You put on a party hat and eat a slice of cake. The hat’s elastic digs into your face. Your mother made the cake and it’s your favorite. Nothing in the world right now is better than this cake. No one right now is better than your mother. She wipes your face and gives you a kiss on the head and tells you that you are very, very good.

It’s your birthday. All your friends hand over gifts wrapped in paper (red, green, yellow polka dots) and tied with curly ribbon (purple, white, gold). The best present is your very best friend apologizing for throwing sand in your eyes. This present is not wrapped.

It’s your birthday. You put on your tightest dress and do your face up like a little doll. You kiss your mother goodbye and climb into Molly’s car. Your friends buy you drinks and one of them takes photos on a disposable camera. She never gets them developed and you never see the photos, but you still have the silly, wrinkled bar napkin tucked away in a drawer.

It’s your birthday. Your lover wakes you with a sloppy wet kiss on the cheek. You turn on the radio and eat french toast in the sun. You smoke a cigarette and walk the dog. You open mail from your mother and receive a call from your father. You eat dinner at your favorite restaurant after buying yourself a new notebook.

It’s your birthday. Your children have forgotten, but they look so sweet playing together in the back garden. You remember how it felt to have your mother kiss you on your head, to have sand thrown in your eyes, to wake up hungover beside your friends, to eat french toast in the sun.

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Emma Wismer lives in Montreal, Canada.