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.

Comments: 13

    Will someone please tell me in the name of all that’s holy why you are not published?

    Miss Vertigo | 07.17.07, 23:26

    Miss Ver­tigo is right. I would so love to trace a fin­ger over your pages and carry an old, worn out copy of you in my bag.

    Ani | 07.18.07, 01:37

    …we are all adorned with cob­webs here.”

    Just lovely. As always.

    And yes, why aren’t your words entombed between leather (or at least a strong form of card) covers?

    Camille | 07.18.07, 01:44

    this is amaz­ing.. i love this blog… i have a couple days off and i will be here read­ing this most delight­ful dribble you fill my head with in the most poignant of ways.…..

    paisley | 07.18.07, 03:04

    Spe­cial occa­sions and anniversar­ies should never be cel­eb­rated until they are more than just sig­ni­fic­ant in them­selves, or they are indeed empty.

    Melograna | 07.18.07, 08:23

    Erm. Yes. Quite. Ahem. Thank you all for your com­ments. If any­one wants me, I will be hid­ing over there, doing a most dread­ful imper­son­a­tion of a pot plant.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.18.07, 19:53

    don’t want to be rude. but i don’t get it. i don’t mean to break the spell of every­one fawn­ing over what you write here say­ing it’s won­der­ful and per­fect and you should be pub­lished. but what’s it all ABOUT? emperor’s new clothes, i think.

    anonymous | 07.19.07, 11:53

    Anon: if you have to ask.…

    Peach | 07.19.07, 12:07

    It’s about how he feels. Don’t be a meanie, Anon.

    desiree | 07.20.07, 06:07

    Anon — I admire the cut of your jib. And I will let you into a secret. I spend an inor­din­ately long time get­ting the stitch­ing in these emperor’s new clothes very pre­cise indeed. But I really ought to do some­thing bet­ter with my time.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.20.07, 13:52

    Will someone please tell me in the name of all that’s holy why you are not published?”

    Miss Ver­tigo took the words right out of my mouth.

    you are fab­ulous! Now Mr Unre­li­able don’t be a silly goose! Come out from that corner right this instant!

    dear lord i sound like my mother.

    Melancholy Match Stick Girl | 07.20.07, 14:23

    Aw, nobody can res­ist a good anon.

    Mr. Unre­li­able: are you imply­ing that you are naked!? I did not real­ize this was THAT kind of blog. Please can­cel my sub­scrip­tion at once.

    Hmph.

    Ani | 07.20.07, 19:20

    They put me in mind of hours unre­lent­ing pain and hos­pital food, no amount of chocol­ate cake can change that.

    callisto | 07.21.07, 02:55

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