Silently, we watched the sunrise together. I remember a pink and orange sky, casting Lynn’s house across the street in a glow that resembled a fire. I remember Mom’s hand brushing my hair as I lay on her chest. I remember the rocking motion. I remember Dad finding us later and slipping into the chair next to hers. I remember her pulling one hand out of our blanketed cocoon to offer it for him to hold.
The day beyond that was hazy. From the pictures, I had a Barney-themed party. We opened gifts from Aunt Lucy and the neighbor’s kids who’ve all since moved away, and I wore an uglyfloral frock that got covered in purple and fuchsia icing from eating too many cupcakes.
I vaguely recall the picnic we shared on the dock that evening. It’s a fragmented, stained-glass mosaic of many different years pieced together but, even so, it is still the most precious memory I have. I can still hear the sound of Mom’s hushed voice reminiscing about the year that’d passed fading and bleeding into the not-quite-autumn breeze rustling the pines. I can still feel the tightness of her hold, beingsmallenough to be held, the itch of the wool blanket against my cheek, her steady hands, and the way she swayed me side to side as we cast wishes for the year to come on the stars above us.
From then on, I demanded sunrises on the front porch and sunsets on the dock on every birthday.
This year marks the third time I’ve had to do it alone. But at least it’s a good excuse to sneak away from the party Dad insisted on throwing me. At the top of our property’s steep hill, on the grass between the A-frame and my parents’ back porch, my Dad is drinking wine and breaking bread with half of the town.
But, down here, it’s just me, the plaid blanket we’ve always kept by the door, a six-pack of unlabeled beer I found in Dad’s office fridge, and the chilling, fresh September-evening breeze drying my tears that have managed to break free.
My phone interrupts the dusk, lighting up with a text from Milo. It’s a photo of him and his three-day-old niece, who’s yet to receive her name. He’s smiling proudly as he holds the tiny, wailing baby out toward the camera, red-faced and screaming.
Milo: I think she likes me
I’d left Milo’s place not long after Aleks called to let him and Nadia know that Sef had safely delivered the newest Kablukov, inthe back seat of his car, in the parking lot of the hospital. That the midwife had taken over from Nik, who had yet to catch his breath, and that mom and baby were both totally fine, if a little shocked at the speedy arrival. Aleks was going to take his car to the brewery and detail it while waiting for the delivery that seemed immovable, and Nadia and Milo agreed they’d take care of the kids.
Prue: She’s got good taste ;)
So, it’s alittleflirty, sue me! It’s my birthdayandI’m drinkingandI miss my mother who, yes, is inside the house at the top of the hill, yet still so, so, so far away.
Milo: thanks again for your help the other day
Milo: did your mom paint again this morning?
I can’t help the slight scowl that overtakes my face. Milo is not returning my flirting. And flirting seems to be his default setting.Something is wrong. Or, he’s simply lost interest.
Prue: She did, yeah.
Prue: And, no worries! Glad everyone is home safe!
As I’m about to toss my phone toward the corner of the blanket and reach for another beer, he replies.
Milo: what are you up to right now?
A rumbling belly laugh sounds from my father in the distance as I sit up straighter to respond.
Prue: Hiding from a party, you?
Milo: Tom threw a party and didn’t invite me?!
Prue: He may have asked me to invite you…Whoops!
Milo: wow. I’m hurt. What’s the occasion?
I can’t help but smile, anticipating his reaction.
Prue: My birthday…
His responses are just as predicted—immediate and crazed.
Milo: killer, tell me you’re joking
Milo: is today your birthday?
Milo: don’t fuck with me
Milo: why didn’t you tell me when I texted you earlier???
