Happy Birthday

Birds began chirping as pots and pans clattered in the kitchen, I drifted towards the sound, full of anticipation.

As expected, granny stood midst her organized chaos of a kitchen, the window wide open letting in the sweet summer breeze and the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance. I had always loved spending the summers in this house.

Standing there I watched as she prepared the feast that would later be devoured in mere minutes, watched as she hummed a soft tune, unbothered by my lurking. Her hair tied back in a thick bun, with a floral apron covering her nightgown, she kneaded the dough, peeled the potatoes, her warmth and love infusing every delicious dish.

The guests began arriving around noon. Some lingering around the snacks granny had set out, others diving straight into the waves, which were normally exceptional during this time of year, when the sunrays drenched everything in marvelous warmth, that of a wooly blanket on a rainy morning.

“Hi momma,” said aunty Leena, carrying a baby on her hip, as she leaned in to hug granny.

“Make way! Make way!” screeched Johnny as he rushed past with weighted plastic bags. He was on drinks duty yet again.

A nostalgic tune drifted from grandpa’s study as he put on my favorite record.

As more and more kids flooded the house, I escaped to my room, seeking its calm essence, only to find another random baby on my tidy bed.

When had we became the adults of the family, and not the kids rummaging through the house. “The Troublesome Four” our grandparents had deemed us; Rory, Mia, Johnny and I, the eldest of the cousins, by what felt like eons.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I basked in the stream of sunlight as Winnie, my cat, hopped up onto my lap, settling down for a nap as I caressed her back.

Every single birthday I could remember had always been spent in this house, the violins carried through the house from record to record, the mouthwatering scents wafting from the kitchen, the screams as Johnny tried to escape from Rory’s water gun and impeccable aim.

Nothing mattered in this house but us, the family full of laughter and old-fashioned rules we would sly around.

The bell we hung from the tree in the backyard started ringing, alerting the house of the water gun battle that was about to begin.

Letting the door to the backyard swing shut behind me, I was met with a misaimed water balloon, soaking me and the door in the usual bone-chilling ice water. A laugh burst out of me as I joined the game, chasing my cousins around the old tree, the one we had carved our initials into, falling back to old habits although we were in our twenties.

The war normally ended with dunking the looser into the sea, not that it mattered given that we were all soaked to the core at the end of it, but it was always between Johnny and I, this year it was him.

Leaving them, I made my way back into the house, ensuring I didn’t leave a trail of water after me, granny hated it when we entered the house soaking in salt water, it messed with her ambiance or whatever that meant.

The husbands sat by the tv, arguing over some match, though I loved sports, I could never see the appeal of football.

“No!” someone whisper yelled from the kitchen drawing my attention.

“I’m telling you, its all fake.”

I leaned by the door, watching as the aunties gathered in the kitchen murmuring bits of gossip as my mom helped granny on the other side, their eyes rolling at their dramatics.

They were preparing my cake.

Layers of mom’s infamous vanilla sponge cake layered with the sweetest strawberry filling, covered with the cold, creamy icing. Perhaps it was biased, but in my opinion that was the best cake ever.

Winnie meowed, looking up at me with that expression of absolute famishment, although her plate was always full, and everyone sneaked her snacks behind granny’s back. But I understood her more than the others, understood the deep hunger that lingered in your bones, the type that left you famished, left you longing for more.

Johnny appeared at the door then, not bothering with drying up, he dropped Winnie some of her treats before he crept closer to where we stood, then without a warning he shook his head, drenching us as a wet dog would.

Earning a handful of screams and yet another lifelong banishment from the kitchen, he left satisfied with himself. I followed, right up on his heel, but then backout of my revenge as a whistle sounded through the agar door.

Pushing through I mimicked grandpa’s whistle, following the tune of a new song.

He sat on his grand leather chair, facing the fireplace and an open window with the glorious view of the sunset, by his feet laid his Cane Corso, Luke. Though he gave off that dangerous vengeful look, Luke was too old to cause trouble or bark out of the blue, that was what grandpa had said about him as far back as my memory could go.

Luke sat there unbothered, his eyes following me as I walked in, sitting on the floor by the fireplace. Proving grandpa’s words as Winnie followed me, nudging Luke with her head and yet all he did was huff a sigh and stare at me defeatedly.

I loved this study, it was every bit grandpa and more. The dark wooden shelves covering every wall stocked up with books and photographs, of trinkets and granny’s plants. The desk on one end, made of the same wood, sat undisturbed for years now, he hadn’t worked on anything since the incident, but there was a time once when he had been the greatest author of his generation, and the ones after.

There was a time when the words came to him easily, but now they seemed to be blocked by his grief, and I couldn’t sit in this wallow of sadness any longer.

Aunty Leena’s husband had been ushering everyone into the living room as I made my way back to them.

“Everyone smile!” he bellowed before a blinding flash took off.

Photography was his hobby, he knew when to photograph the kids with his phone, and when to bring out the delicate film camera, when to capture a photo and when to encapsule the memory.

He captured a bunch of them, but rarely was in those photos himself.

Photos of the ladies on the floral patterned couch that granny adored, though anyone who had the misfortune of sitting on it too long urgently required a chiropractor. Photos of the kids huddled around with chocolate on their faces. Photos of us, the cousins whose scribbles and drawings still hung on the hallway walls, whose forgotten toys laid deep in the closet, whose innocence still lingered in the essence of this house.

One by one the troublesome four began sneaking out to the backyard, huddling around the old tree. Whenever we had tried to act the least suspicious, we always ended up acting even more suspicious, alerting everyone to the trouble before it began.

It was no secret that Mia smoked cigarettes, no secret that Johnny had bought them for her ever since we were in high school because of his fake id, and even now that we were well into our twenties, we still snuck around because no matter how old we grew, we were still seen as the little menaces of the house, yet now the other kids took some of the attention away.

They huddled together by the tree while I sat on the swing that hung off one of its steadiest branches, drifting with the wind, my red paint-covered fingers curling around the rope.

When we were younger, our conversations were filled with our dreams, with what we wanted to become, what kind of adults we couldn’t wait to grow up to be, but now that we were adults, we couldn’t help reminiscing of our childhood. Of days free of stress and responsibilities, days filled with adventures and laughter.

Funny how nostalgia filled our memories of the past with warm sunshine and content hearts, filtering through the sadness to only showcase the happy times through rose-colored glasses.

We all jumped as a voice yelled through the kitchen window.

“Granny says come in right now!” yelled one of the kids.

Mia put out her cigarette, as Rory passed around gum.

They hurried inside, noting the sun edging towards the sea, the glittering waves rushing upwards to reach it.

It was time for the cake.

Everyone huddled around the dining table, even grandpa shuffled out of his study despite of the noisy kids and the arguing aunts.

“Does anyone have a lighter?” yelled one of the aunts, and the four of us kept our eyes on the floor till granny returned with a box of matches.

I stood between my parents as they lit all the candles, giddiness hummed within the kids as they grabbed onto the table, watching eagerly, while the others held onto each other, seeking warmth from the harsh memories that these candles brought to their minds.

“Happy birthday to you,” they began to sing.

“Happy birthday to you.” My family hadn’t necessarily been gifted in their vocals, the words echoing with a hollow emptiness and the screeching joy.

“Happy birthday dear Matilda,” they sang with a released sigh, “happy birthday to you.”

Leaning down, I took a deep breath in and blew out the candles, ensuring to leave one lit for them.

The silence followed on cue as it had the past four years.

“Must have been the winds again,” muttered Rory as she wrapped her arms around her.

Mom leaned closer to me, blowing the final candle.

Twenty-five blown out candles sat atop the cake, taking in all the miserable glances that had once been filled with light and hope as they stared at me.

“Happy birthday Tilly,” whispered granny before she walked away, wiping the tears with her apron.

They never voiced their thoughts, but I felt it, felt the anger and pain, knew they blamed me for leaving them.

But that’s the thing, I never left.

As they cut up the cake and passed it around, I stood rooted in place. No matter how hard I tried to recall the accident, nothing came to mind. All I could remember was the happy memories, the birthdays in this house, the stress of college, and then the next moment my reflection was gone, my voice lost to the winds, my shadow no longer trailing me.

One minute I had been with them, the next I was all alone as they mourned, as they celebrated birthday after birthday of mine.

Flexing my fingers by my sides, the dried blood matte yet never washed off, I remembered the sounds, the gun shot, the sirens, the slow beats of my heart, and then here I was celebrating yet another one of my birthdays, stuck in a loop I could never escape.

The itself day was never repeated, but it was always my birthday, a new year, another year older, but the blood never left, the dress never changed, the pain never fading as the darkness devoured me, as…

Pots and pans clattered…

Birds chirped…