Disappointing Merriment

I woke up before dawn this morning, my internal clock ticking and my arthritic knees aching. Happy 60th birthday to me. The wind was howling and lightning was shooting past my window, all centered around the park. I took my new pin from the armoire in the corner, the one that said HAPPY 60th BIRTHDAY!, and pinned it to my blouse. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a quart of milk from the fridge. I slowly poured it into the pot on my gas stove--the stove the super was supposed to fix. I zapped a frozen chocolate eclair and got out the Wainwright china I'd brought up from Georgia. I stuck a small yellow candle on top and grabbed a box of matches.

While the milk for my hot chocolate heated, I went to the window to look out. Yesterday afternoon, I'd seen a nurse walk hurridly down the street, talking on her phone with great enthusiasm--too much for this neighborhood. I often feel lonely here because so many of these people keep to themselves. Or at least keep away from me. Which reminds me, I know what I want to wish for. I quickly fixed the hot chocolate and sat down to my cake. I lit the candle, made my wish, and sang softly to myself. If only I had someone to celebrate with--when my Henry was around, birthdays were always such a big deal. . . .

I looked over out the window again. The wind had died down again. The sun was out and the world looked at peace. An elderly lady stood in the park, huddling over a pile of rags and an old piece of newspaper. She looked excited, keyed up in some way--even from six floors up. She must have seen me in the window, because she waved her arms and shouted something. It sounded like Happy Birthday, but I couldn't be sure. I waved back though. I was surprised she'd know it was my birthday, and I took that wave as a sign of good luck, possibly just enough luck to get my stove changed. So I took the rotting, lurching elevator down to the basement and knocked on the super's door.

"Happy Birthday," he said as he opened the door. "What could you possibly want this time of the morning?"

So I explained the situation to him. "When people fly and sidewalks sing."

Hmm.

Next I ran by Manny's grocery to buy a new battery for my hearing aid. The old one was giving out. When I walked in, the manager greeted me with a smile and a "Happy 60th!" He selected me a new battery and escorted me to the checkout. Halfway home, I glanced at the park and saw a gathering of people-some waving at me, some talking with great excitement, one with a celebratory bottle of wine. Off to the side, an odd woman sang in a low, deep voice. "Happy Birthday." The notes drew slowly down the crowd to merge near the street, where a high pitched siren screamed. Touched to tears, I turned away from the group and headed back to my apartment.

I installed my new battery and sipped on my leftover hot chocolate. Drawn out of curiosity, I once again stepped to the window, my view of the park only partially obstructed. The crowd was still gathered, so I opened the window to shout down my thanks. I was cut short by the same low tune from my walk. The high-pitched screech was missing, and over the noise of the crowd I heard "Somebody died today."