In years to come, as you look back, I daresay we will have to remind you that your father took the day off work to help prepare for the parties (yes, plural) we were to have that evening.
After all it’s not every day a royal wedding coincides with your birthday.
First we partied down at the roller skating ring, you and your friends, to the Time Warp and the YMCA song. There were tumbles, but no tears (well – not many) as you all circled around and around. ‘I can’t believe they’re old enough already to be doing this,” I think I said at one point. I’ve known many of those children since they were babies, kicking the air on my lounge room floor. Now they’re wrapping wrist guards around their hands like experts; they’re connoisseurs of good knock-knock jokes; if they could, they’d totally kick Draco Malfoy’s ass because he’s mean.
We cut the cake, we sang the song, we bid our guests farewell to return home to a house that smelled of roast meat. Your father pulled the pork out of the oven and marvelled at the sight – the salted crackling, the even cut, the colour, a pricey extravagance. Then our guests arrived and the other children retreated to the bedrooms to play, but not you. Lying on your belly, on the rug, you watched the wedding with interest as we adults speculated, squealed, and drank at the table behind, where my wedding tiara still lay until late last night, casualty of the festivities.
But in years to come, if you forget these, this is how I shall remind you of your day.
The day before you sat in the chemists, surrounded by those who love you, as your ears were pierced. At the double-click of the guns, your eyes welled with tears. But you held on to them, swallowed, and gripped my hand tighter. Now you have two pink studs that glimmer with the kindness of your heart.
I doubt you’ll need reminding, though. I remember distinctly when I got my ears pierced and I believe I was eight.
You beat me by one year, lucky seven girl.
Happy Birthday.
