Light, and the womb of the dawn’s newborn rays suckled on the soft nipples of the clouds; swirling froths of fog arose from the undergrowth, spun centripetally, and disappeared in a heartbeat by the scavenging raccoons returning to their squalid lairs. The crepuscular infants emerged more and more still, and somehow, the birds sang nevertheless, though their eyes burned with ultraviolet currents of a shocking first birthday. Blue jays proclaimed, wings atwitter, warbling a song of the morning. Every inch of moss, branch, and twig soon felt the warm presence of the child, whom everyone thought had died but minutes ago. And out of the confusion, the singing swelled, with flourishes of this and that inundating the spring air. The wind and the crows and the squirrels, and the melodic effort they produced, reached my eardrums. My eyes peeled themselves open as I smiled to no one in particular. Nature was singing just for me, or so I thought.
And so it was. I sprung out of bed, still half-asleep. Eventually I found myself bounding down the staircase in footy pajamas, a wide grin adorning my semi-toothless face. I glided into the kitchen, where I would await (in awe and false surprise) my super special Mickey Mouse pancakes, coated with thick maple syrup in heartwarming smiley face form.
Not a sight of my mother….
Or some bacon for brunch?
Not a sound in the house but my own heavy breathing.
“Birthday,” I said to myself, or maybe the paneling, or maybe to the world. My lower lip trembled.
“Birthday!” I shouted out to anyone (anything?) who would listen.
My head reeled; I clenched my teeth so hard that my ears began to ring. My heart was broken and my defiance at an apex. I marched outside to the lawn. The blue jays sang their birthday song from the canopies of trees, and for once that day, I heard what beauty sounded like. But the melodies silenced themselves, and I realized that the birds would not dare sing for me. Cursing the wind, I yelled in my falsetto squeal, “STUPID BIRDS! DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S MY BIRTHDAY? MINE!”
And the wind whistled, catcalled, and taunted as it flew through my hair.
Chills.
The house, empty as always but emptier than ever, stood in its usual silence and beckoned me to come back in. I alighted the stairs mournfully, nothing more than the creaking of steps to fill my once-eager ears. I crawled back into my bed, rested my heavy head on the pillow, and waited for something. I waited for anything. Nothing ever came.
But outside, the celebration continued for the new day dawning. The prodigal evening had returned in the form of bright brilliance to save the earth again. Leaves rustled in joy; the river rambled freely in jubilation.
I was dormant.
The blue jays, carried by the whirling eastern winds, rose up into the stratosphere, singing their most beautiful song of all. Later on, they would pop like latex balloons.
