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I remember waking up to the melodious sound of my mother singing happy birthday,
the aroma of bacon and pancakes wandering through the hall, invading my nostrils,
my sister having no regard for my annual celebration and continuing her annoyance,
and my father, toiling with twigs and meddling in the meadow beyond our house.
He was a British bailiff in my imaginary kingdom of weeds and lilies.  

I remember hearing the plans for my birthday shindig. I never fully understood the operations of how it would come about. I was just assured it would be fun.  

I remember driving to Chuck E. Cheese and listening to the radio. The weather would be foul and traffic would abound was the report the DJ gave.

We entered the land of worry-free kids with distressed parents and I remember the sound of kids yelling and the sound of arcade games with its alluring music and sound effects. With every Zap! Zing! Blinnnnggg! and Blammmm! My heart fluttered with growing excitement!

I remember taking several photos as if I were a model. My face was sore from the fake smiling. 

I remember seeing my cake on the long, decorated table. It was a chocolate cake with triple fudge icing. There were Batman plates with SpiderMan cups strategically placed on the long table and there was a sign by the cake for all my presents.

I remember being given a certain number of tokens to play the arcade games. My mother told me, “don’t spend it all on one game because that’s all you’ll get. We have to save tokens for your friends when they show.”  As a momma’s boy, I know mother knows best, but sometimes it’s best mother doesn’t know.  There’s an unforgettable pain when you see your hero helpless and crying.  

I remember having a “prodigal son” moment and spending all my tokens on one arcade game defending the earth from zombies! 

They say time flies when you’re having fun. It was time to eat. I remember approaching that long, inviting table and seeing my mother on her phone talking with her hand over her forehead as if she had a headache. She became visibly upset and I thought maybe she found out I ran out of tokens saving the world from the apocalypse. 

She walked up to me and said, “We’re going to have a good party no matter what. You hear me?” I was confused, yet relieved I wasn’t in trouble. 

We sat down at the long table, ate pizza, and began stabbing my cake with burning candles. My family was unusually overly excited for me, almost as if they were trying to compensate for something.  Patronizing wasn’t a word in my head back then but the response to it was.

As we huddled around the cake, I remember how my weeping mother sang happy birthday. She did not sound like the morning song, rather like a stressed-out parent in a place for distressed parents. 

Zap. Boom. Bam. Bing. Other families around us gathered in bliss. 

We ate in a deafening silence. 

I finally asked, “when are my friends coming so we can save the world?” My sister just walked me over to the zombies with no explanation. 

Time dragged on.

I remember feeling like a won the lottery because I was given more tokens than I could imagine.

I remember winning all the games I played. I remember finally saving the world.

I remember eating more pizza and cake than I could stomach.

I remember the dullness of playing by myself. I had become the zombie and this obligatory observation was my killer.

I remember when I came to that doleful understanding that I was the life of my party. 

I remember having to endure more soreness posing for yet another family picture.

I remember wanting to go back home to my kingdom of lilies where I could play with twigs and meddle in the meadow.
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