Dad hands me a box with a cake in it. I carry it up the stairs.
Mom, it’s for you, I yell when I get to the top.
Mom smiles.
PLOP!
I look at the cake. On the ground. In the box.
It looks the same. It has not moved.
“Thank goodness for ice cream cake,” Dad laughs.
I pick it up. And hand it to Mom.
Happy birthday, I say.
“Do you know how old I am?” Mom asks.
Three, I say. Like me!
I run to the cabinet. And pull out the candle from my last birthday.
“Here,” I say. “Use this.”
And she does.
Leave a comment