It’s My Birthday

My birthday party last year was a strange gathering.  Certain relatives were on speaking terms, and certain others weren’t.  Some of my relatives are all about the alcohol; some are dead set against it. When I say against, I mean Carrie Nation-type opposition.

The air was so thick with hostility, you could’ve cut it with a plastic party spoon.  I didn’t feel much like celebrating in that environment; however, loyalty is the thin membrane that undergirds and binds the flesh and bones of the organism that is called “family.”  And we’re fiercely loyal, so we partied.

When the candles were lit and everyone circled around the table, I did what came naturally to me.  I looked into their eyes, bright with anticipation, and I sang the first thing that came to mind, my own version of “Happy Birthday.”   It came out like this:

Everybody, yeah

Rock your body, yeah

Everybody, rock your body right

Backstreet’s back, alright!

Mouths gaped and eyes blinked in confusion.  No one joined in save for my dear cousin who is of a similar age — but that was OK because it was my birthday and I can cause confusion if I want to.

Someone grabbed a cigarette lighter and lit the candles.  I swung my hand back and forth, slapping at the air above the tiny flames.  It’s not proper to blow your breath all over something that will be shared with others, I thought.

As night spread itself across a cloudy sky, we began to fall asleep one by one.

We had survived another get-together.

And the cake was delicious.