Day 3722
I wake up to the sound of footsteps and muffled giggles, and the smell of maple syrup. I wake up to a colorful room, to light, to smiling, singing faces, and the sound of “Happy Birthday to You.” I pull myself up, and a tray is lowered onto my lap. I see a stack of pancakes with a candle set in them. I wait until the end of the song and blow the candle out.
Today I am a girl named Cara, and it’s her tenth birthday. I’d wonder if it was my own tenth birthday, too, only I find that I have at least a dozen birthdays every year. Back when I had no concept of what a year was, I could believe that I was growing at exactly the same pace as whatever body I was in that day. But once I started to count, I knew the math was wrong. You cannot have more than one birthday in a year—and as a result, I had to admit that these were other people’s birthdays, not my own. I had wanted to find logic in my life, and that was a mistake.
When I was little, I could lose myself in the rapture of unwrapping, the glee of parties and cake and being treated like the center of the world. When the time came for the candles to be blown out, I would make my own wishes, because I felt that’s what was being granted. Often, I’d wish to stay in that day, to have every day be as precious as a birthday.
This morning is different, though. I do not bother to wish. If anything, I feel like I am stealing Cara’s wish away from her, because she is not here and I am.
I pretend I wish, though. Because I look at the faces of Cara’s parents, her sister, even her brother—and I know that, whatever her wish would be, they too would want it to turn true. Some families are like that.
It’s a weekday, so soon the parents will have to go to work and the children will have to go to school. I try to hold Cara in the halo of their affection for as long as I can, and I hope that when I’m gone, she will still feel the afterglow. The candle is put aside on the counter and the pancakes are eaten. As the food goes from taste to weight, the morning routine returns. The school bus will not wait for me, even though it’s my birthday.
I work hard on the ride to school to access the names and faces of Cara’s friends. Her mind creates flash cards for me, and I try to memorize them as best as I can. The practice is not in vain, because as soon as I get to the classroom, Mrs. Richardson announces my birthday and puts a construction-paper crown on the front of my desk. Even my fifth-grade enemies respect this. I am queen for the day.
I try to enjoy it. The cupcakes at lunch. The excitement about the party on Saturday. My two best friends, Jodie and Michaela, who couldn’t wait to give me their presents. Again, I find myself pretending—and since I am only ten, I don’t fully understand why the pretending also makes me sad. I should be grateful to have a day that’s covered in icing. I should be happy to have so many people happy for me, when all I had to do was get a year older.
On the bus ride home, the kids from my class ask me what I’m going to do tonight, and I tell them I don’t know. The kids who aren’t in my class are indifferent, and I almost wish I were sitting with them.
I am the first one home, letting myself in with my key. Usually, I head straight to the kitchen to get myself a snack—no matter which kitchen, no matter what snacks are available. But I have already eaten enough for one day, so I go straight to my room. Once there, I don’t know what to do. I feel like my boredom is cheating Cara out of something, that I am sabotaging her new year before it’s even begun. I have no way to articulate this to myself; it’s just a sensation.
My sister, Laura, comes home. She is three years older than me, and goes to the middle school. She calls out my name as soon as she gets in the door, and even though I don’t answer, she heads straight to my room. Hearing her approach, I try to busy myself, but since none of the toys or books
I wake up to the sound of footsteps and muffled giggles, and the smell of maple syrup. I wake up to a colorful room, to light, to smiling, singing faces, and the sound of “Happy Birthday to You.” I pull myself up, and a tray is lowered onto my lap. I see a stack of pancakes with a candle set in them. I wait until the end of the song and blow the candle out.
Today I am a girl named Cara, and it’s her tenth birthday. I’d wonder if it was my own tenth birthday, too, only I find that I have at least a dozen birthdays every year. Back when I had no concept of what a year was, I could believe that I was growing at exactly the same pace as whatever body I was in that day. But once I started to count, I knew the math was wrong. You cannot have more than one birthday in a year—and as a result, I had to admit that these were other people’s birthdays, not my own. I had wanted to find logic in my life, and that was a mistake.
When I was little, I could lose myself in the rapture of unwrapping, the glee of parties and cake and being treated like the center of the world. When the time came for the candles to be blown out, I would make my own wishes, because I felt that’s what was being granted. Often, I’d wish to stay in that day, to have every day be as precious as a birthday.
This morning is different, though. I do not bother to wish. If anything, I feel like I am stealing Cara’s wish away from her, because she is not here and I am.
I pretend I wish, though. Because I look at the faces of Cara’s parents, her sister, even her brother—and I know that, whatever her wish would be, they too would want it to turn true. Some families are like that.
It’s a weekday, so soon the parents will have to go to work and the children will have to go to school. I try to hold Cara in the halo of their affection for as long as I can, and I hope that when I’m gone, she will still feel the afterglow. The candle is put aside on the counter and the pancakes are eaten. As the food goes from taste to weight, the morning routine returns. The school bus will not wait for me, even though it’s my birthday.
I work hard on the ride to school to access the names and faces of Cara’s friends. Her mind creates flash cards for me, and I try to memorize them as best as I can. The practice is not in vain, because as soon as I get to the classroom, Mrs. Richardson announces my birthday and puts a construction-paper crown on the front of my desk. Even my fifth-grade enemies respect this. I am queen for the day.
I try to enjoy it. The cupcakes at lunch. The excitement about the party on Saturday. My two best friends, Jodie and Michaela, who couldn’t wait to give me their presents. Again, I find myself pretending—and since I am only ten, I don’t fully understand why the pretending also makes me sad. I should be grateful to have a day that’s covered in icing. I should be happy to have so many people happy for me, when all I had to do was get a year older.
On the bus ride home, the kids from my class ask me what I’m going to do tonight, and I tell them I don’t know. The kids who aren’t in my class are indifferent, and I almost wish I were sitting with them.
I am the first one home, letting myself in with my key. Usually, I head straight to the kitchen to get myself a snack—no matter which kitchen, no matter what snacks are available. But I have already eaten enough for one day, so I go straight to my room. Once there, I don’t know what to do. I feel like my boredom is cheating Cara out of something, that I am sabotaging her new year before it’s even begun. I have no way to articulate this to myself; it’s just a sensation.
My sister, Laura, comes home. She is three years older than me, and goes to the middle school. She calls out my name as soon as she gets in the door, and even though I don’t answer, she heads straight to my room. Hearing her approach, I try to busy myself, but since none of the toys or books
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