Happy Birthday, Mom

I bring balloons,
their strings tangled like laughter,
and a cake bright with candles—
tiny suns we’ve lit for you to blow out.
I sing the song I’ve sung every year,
hands clapping, voice trembling with joy,
because what a gift it is
to celebrate another turn of the earth
with you.

I remember all the others—
pink-frosted cakes in my kitchen,
the paper crown you wore to make me laugh,
the way you pretended surprise
though you always knew what I had planned.
You gave the day its magic,
and I carry those memories now
like sparklers burning in the dark.

But this year is different.
You smile at the candles,
yet your eyes are far away—
as though the door has closed
and you are trapped behind it,
knocking softly,
unable to find your way back.

I clap louder,
sing brighter,
pile joy at your feet
in hopes it will reach you
through the keyhole of memory.
Sometimes it does.
Sometimes your laughter bursts free,
and I swear I see you
for just a moment.

It is a privilege to stand here,
to keep lighting candles,
to keep remembering for us both.
But beneath the joy,
the sorrow drags heavy:
the knowing that each birthday we celebrate
may be another you will not recall.

So I hold the moment tighter.
I press joy into it like a seal,
even as grief curls around its edges.
And I whisper to you,
to the part of you still listening:

Happy birthday, Mom.
I will remember—
always,
for us both.

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