Is the cake okay sitting in the front Mommy?
Yes, the cake is fine.
Good. I want Daddy to like his cake.
I'm sure he will, honey.
The car stops under a tree, waits. So do we. Stalling in the sticky June night, too early for summer but too hot for spring. My four-year-old eyes drink the view, the sky painted red, orange, yellow, pink, bright like oils but soft like watercolor, the machine shop, a metal rectangle dropped on a dull cement square, the birthday cake, a frosted round placed on a gleaming ceramic circle.
8:01 flashes green on the dashboard. It's past my bedtime, but this is a special occasion. Besides, I've got pajamas on—a turquoise nightie with Dora on the front. Together she and I gaze out the window, two sets of eyes reflecting back at us. Cartoon brown and tired blue.
Mommy's phone rings. It's Daddy.
Hi, she says. How's your break going?
Phone mumbling.
We're outside. Why don't you come out and see us?
Excited phone mumbling.
Mommy smiles, hangs up.
Is Daddy coming?
He's on his way!
I watch the door, waiting, bouncing with excitement. Finally a sliver of light appears, growing wider until Daddy emerges, wearing blue t-shirt, work jeans, and a smile, his steel toe shoes clomping down the steps, making his way towards us.
Click. The car door swings open.
Hey kid! Good to see ya! His eyes are the same tired but excited blue as mine.
Hi Daddy! I giggle. Happy Birthday!
Mommy smiles, then grabs a match, flicks it. The end sparks and ignites as she passes it around, the glow of the candles growing with every touch, until each is illuminated and they are orange stars twinkling in our eyes. Soft light fills the car, the glow of the candles and our faces. Everything else falls to shadow.
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday dear Daddy
Happy Birthday to you
He makes a wish and blows. The candles smoke like the chimneys of happy houses in wintertime.
The cake is cut and served with strawberries, slices of happiness on paper plates.
Our celebration lasts only 15 minutes. Then Daddy has to go back to work. He'll come home at midnight, turn on the TV, eat leftovers. Mommy will be gone in the morning, off to work.
This is my family. Me, my parents, and worknight birthdays.
YOU ARE READING
Worknight Birthday
RandomThis is a vignette I wrote in the style of Sandra Cisneros' "The House On Mango Street". It is based on a memory of a true event from when I was little.
