Birthday memories

Tonight we celebrated my Dad's birthday. These days any form of family celebration sends me on a nostalgic memory trip to years past, especially if the memory includes my sister, who I am missing terribly as of late. And so this evening I spent a fair amount of time thinking about all the birthday celebrations I've been part of for my Dad. The table conversation revolved around days gone by and how things have changed in the last fifty years. I, on the other hand, thought about how some things never change. Especially when my little cousin walked out into the darkened dining room some thirty minutes later, proudly balancing a German Chocolate cake for my Dad so we could all serenade him. It seems that no matter how many years pass, there is always a tiny brunette girl carrying a cake for my Dad's birthday. On his thirtieth birthday, that little girl was me.

I still remember how excited my sister and I were for his arrival from work. We felt like we would jump out of our skin at any moment. My mother had spent the afternoon whipping up a feast while my sister and I scurried about the house making cards and little decorations.

My sister would walk towards the front room window and sit on the back edge of the couch, keeping watch for his car. Her long hair was in its usual mass of knots and tangles and it was the only part of her head I could see since her face was mashed into the window. When his car finally pulled up the house became a frenzy of giggles and excitement. I loved the way my Dad filled the doorway when he came home. He was tall and lanky. Always ready to give us a big grin and sweep us up in a great hug. My mom bought him a bright blue shirt that said "Thirty and still frisky," my sister and I weren't quite sure what "frisky" meant but we loved the way my mom laughed when she gave it to him. We felt so proud to deliver his birthday cake, not because it made us feel grown up to be trusted with it, but because we were his little girls. I can't recall what the cake looked like or what presents we gave him. But I do remember the look on his face when he took it all in, when he blew out his candles, when he opened whatever it was we gave him that year. He looked at us with a great fierce love in his eyes. Even though the whole day was just for him, we felt loved and incredibly special that he was our Papito.

So once again a little brunette brought my Dad his birthday cake. Only now he is surrounded by many more family members, two of them are my own children, and he still loves us all with every ounce of his being. Happy Birthday Papito, we love that we belong to you.