Today was my anniversary; no one remembered.
It wasn’t a big deal to be forgotten, or the first time a circled date on my calendar went unnoticed by the world. It’s a private sort of holiday anyway, and I’m the person who remembers.
It is my part in the tribe.
* * *
One summer, many years ago, a busy household forgot the birthday of a 10-year-old girl. 23 adults and children around a dinner table, and no one breathed a felicitous word.
Dessert was served. A beautiful sheet of cake someone had picked up on a whim because it had a funny picture of a cactus on it. It was cut and passed around the table, and everyone began to eat.
The little girl closed her eyes and made a wish. There was no song or candles, but it was her birthday cake.
Her little brother noticed.
“Are you making a wish on the cake?” he asked excitedly. “Is it a magical cake?”
The table went silent as the adults pondered the only viable reason someone would wish on a cake, then her Mother became visibly upset. “Oh sweety,” she said. “This is your birthday cake, isn’t it?”
At her nod, the house became a flurry of motion. Hugs, kisses, streamers that came from the basement and balloons being blown up by grandparents who didn’t have enough air to walk up the stairs.
The balloons said Happy Anniversary, the streamers said Congratulations, and the cake had a cactus– but it was a birthday celebration you couldn’t match with a million dollars and months of preparation.
She watched happily as everyone stayed up late to dance and celebrate in the living room. Her uncle sat down quietly beside her. His always-sparkling eyes looked at her and his long nose twitched. He slid his gold ring off his finger and an old picture from his wallet. She watched as he carefully wrapped them in that day’s newspaper and handed it to her.
“A birthday gift.” he said.
She shook her head. The ring was important. A family heirloom. She didn’t have to look to see the number written inside. It was a number that was once tattooed to the arm of his kinsman. Surviving and living greater than that number, her uncle would say, is what it means to be Jewish.
He unwrapped it for her, took off her simple necklace, threaded the heavy ring on, and put it back on her. He pressed the picture between her hands, but she didn’t look down. She remembered the photo. It was a colorless picture of a man who looked just like her uncle, minus the smile in his eyes. A different man, but the same man. A different time, but a moment that history could never erase.
“Sometimes stories are not yours to tell– but you carry them because we trust our memories in your keeping.” Uncle said, “This is what means to be the person who remembers. It is an important role, and sometimes it means people will forget to celebrate your small days– because we celebrate you every day.”
She touched the heavy ring and her eyes misted. Being forgotten a lot didn’t sound important.
Her dad walked over and kneeled by the couch to interrupt, “What are you two talking about so seriously?”
Her uncle answered, “Oh, we were just making a list of the most important people to move to a safe location on the moon, in the event of an alien apocalypse situation.”
Her dad’s face scrunched up, turning tactical. “There could be overlap, but we’d need a doctor, a teacher, some sort of philosophical leader type and some sort of militant one, the people who remember, and…”
She cut him off. “Dad, why do we need people who remember?”
“We only exist today by the virtue of their light tomorrow.” he replied, “The ones with that gift are holding onto our very humanity. They remember, and that remembering reminds us.”
She smiled. If these men said it was so, then it was so.
Others could forget.
She would remember.
* * *
Today was hot and foggy in Southern California. The lines everywhere were long and I went to work. Nearly all my accounts, including this one, were hacked. Passwords changed, drafts deleted, spam comments left seemingly by me, no names on my follow-list, and lots and lots of emails and notifications that needed to be sent explaining it all.
Dave and I went out to eat for a quick bite, since we had to go right back to fixing things. Our order was wrong but we held hands and ate, like normal. We’re working on year 8 of marriage now, and the hands holding on to each other are noticeably older than they were years ago– but they match just as well as always.
I told the waitress it was our anniversary, just to tell someone. She asked if we even remembered the beginning.
Of course, I told her– running my fingers over the numbers engraved on the ring that is regularly worn around my neck.
That’s my role. I’m one of the ones who remember.
______________________________
What a strange post, eh!
Thanks to all those who were patient in the face of my accidental spamming today, and those who were understanding of my re-following over the course of the next week. Thank you to those who added so much to our lives in the course of the last year — today, we saluted you over veggie burgers!
Thank you to all who made C4C into a wonderful Christmas experience. I hope to get to your prizes soon.
I’m officially very excited to leave 2013 in the dust and start on 2014. What about you?