Incipient

1 | the prodigy

Hornbuckle, Massachusetts 2006

I counted eighteen candles shoved on a poorly made cupcake. Each was a different color that Granny could conjure up. It was amazing how they all managed to stay on the cupcake, although the blue sparkle candle was slightly depressed. Granny came around the kitchen corner holding a single lit match in one hand while shielding the flame with the other. She was extremely focused and kept looking between the match, the cake, and my face. My uncle sat next to me staring blankly at the freezer door that had scattered alphabet magnets; he wasn't awake just yet.

The clock on the oven kept blinking the same numbers over and over again, '5:20 am'. To others, it may be way too early for a birthday celebration, but for us, it has been a tradition since I was almost four years old. Mom would usually have to leave early for work every day and come home late, but on my birthday she would make sure she saw her birthday girl no matter what time, even at 5:20 in the morning. It was a kind gesture, and even after her death, we continue the tradition.

I tried to push that memory out of my head and focus on the present. This was not a time to feel remorseful. Granny finally made it to the table with the candle still barely alive. You could tell by the look on her face that this was a very big accomplishment.

"Is there a birthday girl in the house this morning?" she said happily while lighting one candle then moving to the next.

I looked at my uncle who barely moved a muscle. Obviously, he wasn't the birthday girl. I smiled at her cheerfully, "Right here."

When she got to the fourteenth candle the flame was drawing too close to her fingertip. It nipped her a little; she cussed then blew out the match. She took one lit candle from the cake and touched it to the remaining wicks, "Oh I thought there was!" she placed the candle back in its place, wiped off her hands and looked at my uncle. "Now everybody sing on the count of three! One...two...three!"

I know that when she told everybody to sing she meant more than just her belting out my happy birthday song. However, my uncle remained quit and refused to open his mouth since he had no caffeine in his system just yet. He could be sleeping with his eyes open for all I know. Granny still sang as loud as she could, and I even joined to make her feel better. You could tell it did make her feel a little relieved, but at the same time made her reminisce.

When mom was here, so was the loud singing. She was such a proud mom who belted at all of my birthdays up until my seventeenth birthday. For most of my life it was just the two of us until a few years ago she received an opportunity to work for a company. It contained traveling, so she decided to move in with Granny so that I wasn't home alone when the time came to travel. It was one of the many sacrifices she had to make as a single mother.

She used to tell me that my father wishes he was here with us, but he was off doing something else for us. Even if he wasn't present she assured me I still had a father who adored me more than anything. I'd eat that up until I got older. I know he really abandoned us, but Mom still believes there is good in whoever he is. It's a cover-up.

She has been gone for over five months now but it still hasn't sunk in completely. You hear about people telling you that you don't know what you have until its gone, but you don't really pay attention to it because it doesn't pertain to you at the moment. But now, more than ever, I believe it.

One morning she was packing her bags for another one of her long business trips. I would usually skip school that day to spend more time with her before she left. She would hum "All You Need is Love" by the Beatles while shoving in her neutral-colored blouses along with polished heels into her suitcase. Her hair, which was once neat and orderly, now flew out in different ways from her high bun. She knew I was watching her but kept packing in silence. I never knew that this would be the last moment I would ever have with her.