Birthday Boy

(nightcafe image)

I sat in my highchair next to the dining table. In front of me was a birthday cake and a candle. Everyone sang the birthday song, and indeed I was very happy. People found it hard to believe that I remember anything of my first birthday; even less believable was what I did on my second, so I stopped telling these stories when I was a teenager.

On my second birthday there were cake, ice cream, and presents, and again I was very happy. The next day, however, I felt keenly the passage of time. The joy of my babyhood wouldn't last; my mother would give birth in a couple of months, and I would have to leave my crib for a bed in another bedroom. In a few years I would go to school and grow up.

I stood in the crib and committed the surroundings to memory. The floor was polished dark hardwood, and the walls were painted turquoise. My crib was next to the far wall by the window facing the street. Looking from the crib, straight ahead was the door to the hallway. The black rotary-dial telephone was mounted on the wall just outside the door.

Inside the bedroom on the left was a full length mirror. To the right of the door was a chest of drawers where my clothes were stored. Further to the right was a small closet and a wall where family pictures had been hung.

My grandparents' home was torn down decades ago, and the image of my bedroom exists only in memory. Yes, it was an ordinary sight, but it's special to me, as was my second birthday and birthdays I am now fortunate to enjoy.