Early October in Virginia,
the concrete steps I sit on are probably a little cold.
I am newly four in a dress my mother made.
Ruffled sleeves, an empire waist, the white fabric
I picked out is covered in big, bright red cherries.
I am waiting for my birthday to begin.
My mother leans out of the house,
belly round with my sister.
It will be hours before my friends arrive.
I nod. Stay put on the stoop.
There is nothing to do but wait.

Mom makes birthdays a big deal in our house.
There’s always a party.
This year, the first year I remember, my party is at McDonald’s.
We never go there. Dad hates it.
But he is traveling, always traveling,
and Mom is due in December,
and it is 1982, McDonald’s makes birthday cakes.
White icing perfectly smooth,
frosting ribbons tracing the sheet cake’s perimeter,
a perfectly painted Ronald McDonald
holds puffy primary colored balloons,
next to Happy Birthday, Kelly.

Pigtails,
ruffled white socks and patent leather shoes,
a sea of legs dangling from a yellow plastic booth,
smiles wide,
pictures don’t need to remind me
my friends and I got Happy Meals.

In my memories, I only remember
the joy of a celebration all for me.
But as I write this memory down, decades later,
I imagine I am the tired, pregnant, working mom
behind the lens of her Polaroid camera,
with the husband, who is somewhere overseas.
I am grateful for little cardboard boxes of fast food,
for a cake, someone else made,
a mess I will not have to clean up today,
and it makes my memory sweeter.

by Kelly Sage