Many happy non-returns
I’m woken by weak morning sun and even weaker mourning tea — are you still drinking green? — accompanied by a slice of mouldy, putrid birthday cake that oozes and spews rancid cream. Freshly knifed, but rotting from the inside out because it was left to gather dust for months in preparation for this tender moment.
I pluck a bent candle out of the icing, scooping a trail in the sugary white, and suck on the decaying sweetness. Tell me: why is it no longer possible to burn it at both ends, like we did when we were only a few weeks younger?
Pick up the paper. Ignore the news. Discard the shiny supplements so that I can whisper the words of faded print under my breath as I scan the obituary column for clues near and far, searching for a name of uncertain provenance. Nothing, not a word, except for the knowledge that we are all adorned with cobwebs here.
I should have sent a birthday card. Instead, I wrote myself an unsent letter. I should have sent a gift. Instead, I bought a box and never filled it, never stamped it. I should have called, but the line would have been engaged. Or out of order. Or the voicemail would have already been fit to burst with the vacuous words of worn-out well-wishers. Or. Oh, I’m sure I can think of another excuse not to hear my voice echoing emptily back in my face through the mouthpiece, whilst that pot-bellied Buddha perches on the corner shelf in front of me, giving me the same mischievous look as always. Stop grinning, just stop. Why does he forever seem to know what I’m up to? Maybe I should stick a party hat atop his pudgy balding head, so that he can celebrate this momentous day even whilst I am trying not to give it a second thought. And failing.
Many happy non-returns, my unchristened dearest. So-and-so sends their love. What’s-their-name will be in touch soon. Thingummybob blows a kiss. We all miss you, wherever you’ve gone.