the cold pinching my cheeks,
i think of the little happy tears
that warmed them as the fireworks popped
and whizzed over my head hours earlier
the way an arm hugged me here
and a kiss appears on the top of my head
and looking across at my sister
through the dark in the middle of the crowd
and she stretches out a hand and says,
'don't cry' and i say 'i'm so happy'
and i'm not watching the fireworks
but my dad and brother illuminated
in the car headlights in the field
working together to create such a show
the whooping and cheering swirls around me
the crowd shouts 'speech! speech! speech!'
but i shake my head smiling
using my fingers to stem the tears
under my eyes. there is the taste of electricity
cutting a square cake as if it was round
accidentally worrying my aunty with
the casual way i dance with the knife
as i make a wish. a quiet beautiful moment at the piano, my red
cup with 'torridge' on the side. (the silly wonderful
nickname that stuck last time there was fireworks
and i felt the cold pinch my cheeks on a rooftop
in brooklyn.) barefooted, i make outlandish requests
when no one is watching (birthday whims for a
whimsical girl) and it feels like a game
where i win. and my name appears on the air
growing and growing, "tori… tori… it's time for the cake.
where ARE you?" i rush inside to the hallway,
they're waiting, the candles, the familiar faces,
i can't do it in one go, my sister complains her arms
are tired from holding such a big cake. there are
balloons made of icing. again, the shouts of
"speech! speech! speech!" and this time i indulge them
i don't remember what i say - i've had too much whiskey -
but i know i feel gratitude bubbling inside me & i feel overwhelmed
so overwhelmed. my cousin tells me my friends are crazy,
my uncle has memorised all of their names and it makes me grin,
they produce the biggest bottle of prosecco i've ever seen,
i pop the cork & it hits the ceiling, i take a big swig
and feel so uncouth but i'm thirty and maybe it's time i admit
that sometimes being messy feels fun,
and sometimes it's okay to drink out the bottle
when there are no more clean glasses. the lounge fills up
and my dad makes his way through the crowd with his guitar
singing happy birthday. and, in that wonderful way,
everyone has slightly different timing, a slightly different key,
but they're singing for me & it's unforgettably sweet,
and that gratitude feeling is growing so large,
i can feel it up against my skin, my heart a balloon,
my face aches from smiling, they yell, "speech! speech! speech"
and i laugh. "i already did that!"
"do it again". i say something along the lines of
'i wouldn't be here if it wasn't for all of you' and i mean it
oh how i mean it. how each one of them has taught me something
and nurtured me and supported me and made me laugh
and i pass round the prosecco, watch as everyone drinks from the bottle,
feel so enamoured with all of it.
the inevitable goodbyes start to speed up after midnight
though it feels like 1am and i check the time and it's 5
and those who are left find a spot on the floor to camp - blankets
and pillows come out. there's a foggy memory of one moment being
in my dress and the next in my onesie and the next day row tells me
that her and matt changed me and she made him close his eyes
the whole time. before long everyone is asleep, some are snoring,
i try to close my eyes but my mind just keeps going around and
around. so i make a cup of tea, and another, and another,
make a mini mountain of all the baklava left on the dining room table
and carry it outside, the grass thick and wet, my shoes soaked through,
i sit at the table listening to the birds, texting one of my favourite souls,
who doesn't know he's been keeping me together lately, even then,
i make no sense in my tired drunk words until right in the middle
an amelie analogy and there it is, right there, the burning question mark,
what do i want, what am i supposed to be doing,
i'm a birthday milestone cliche to a tee. i cry a lot for an hour or two after that. a sort of
release? i think about the sunflowers, two bunches, sitting
combined in a big vase on the kitchen bench. how each time i said,
"sunflowers? they're one of my favourites" and each time they said,
"i know" and then i thought about the dutch sunflowers rotund in your hand,
safety in numbers, the words i have been trying to assemble for a month,
how it has been two years too long and too quiet, too
brusque, but all the colours are here and vibrant,
my heart thumps to a strong rhythm,
it takes no prisoners. but still, i can't deny there is also an emptiness,
a marked absence, there is still a broken promise i can't shake off,
this is still plan b. are you thinking of me?
how could i find that empty space in
all of those people, all of them gathered together,
i have lost count of hugs and kisses on cheeks
and envelopes, drinks, gifts thrust into my hands,
i've lost count of the number of times i've said thank you
i walk to the farm, hoping i don't wake the neighbours with sobs,
a little part of me hoping i do. there's a fine mist bobbing over the fields,
my favourite tree, a cobweb adorned with droplets. and i laugh at myself too.
oh how i laugh. i think of the note i wrote, a goodbye disguised as a thank you in loopy handwriting, i clutch the gold key in my pocket, the mug in my hand,
what was i thinking? "she went out for a walk and she never came back
on one of the happiest nights of her life."
did i really consciously consider where i'd put my passport? it was only a minute. and where would i go really?
i laugh again. a belly laugh. a few more tears. and then i walk home.
a staggering giraffe with a cup of tea & uncharacteristically good eyebrows
i feel sort of perfectly me. and i think everything is going to be okay.
laura makes pancakes, we dissect the night before, my sister tells me
she can't take me seriously dressed head to toe as an animal,
little emily, who's not yet one, doesn't know what to make of me either,
but soon we play peekaboo in the mirror and i let her wipe her
hands on it because she seems to enjoy it
leaving little grubby hand prints that i can't bring myself to wipe off
making her smile never gets old.
and everyone packs up and everyone leaves
and we cover the red wine soaked tablecloth in white wine
we clingfilm the cake, we wash all the glasses,
we lament that we forgot to put out the olives
and the salmon pate, dad eats all the leftover camembert for breakfast.
it's 3:30pm in the afternoon. my body aches, i'm covered in bruises.
i take off my make-up. i put on my pyjamas & clean my teeth.
