Birthday Solitaire
On waiting to be remembered, and learning to be alone
“Lucia Anne, what are you doing?” I’d been so focused on trying to seesaw my grandfather’s bone-handled carving knife deeper into the candle wax that I hadn’t heard my mother come into the kitchen. She’d used my full name, so I knew I was in trouble. Which didn’t seem fair, as I’d been trying to right a wrong she’d allowed to happen.
My birthday candle had only burned down to age 6. Today was my 10th birthday. I’d dug the candle out from a bottom drawer in the kitchen, annoyed that no one had taken it out to light it during dinner. I’d pulled the plastic stepstool out from under the sink, taken the carving knife from the holder and even taken the precaution of using the wooden cutting board.
“My candle is only at 6. It’s supposed to burn down to my age every year. I wanted to catch up so we could burn it tonight.”
My mom rolled her eyes and said “Oh, honestly…” — a phrase of disappointed resignation she often used in reaction to my feelings. But she took the knife and cut the top chunk off the candle, so the years were more closely aligned with my actual age. Then she set it on the dining room table and lit it.
Dinner was over, and we’d had our cake, so it was just me, sitting there. I took out a deck of cards and played solitaire, waiting for my birthday candle to melt another year away.
Decades later, I’d find myself waiting for the years to melt away again, as I waited in vain for my birth mother to acknowledge our connection on my birthday. I longed for a card with a handwritten note, or maybe even a phone call. She’d tell me she’d always thought of me on this day, and I’d know I hadn’t been forgotten and my lives would line up again.
I’m still waiting. She’s nearing 90. The flame is burning down.
Today’s Touchstone
A single thing — book, essay, post, paper, idea — that struck me, steadied me, or made me think differently.
The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child — Nancy Verrier
Nancy Verrier’s 1993 book gave me language for what I’d always felt but couldn’t name — that the first separation leaves a mark that doesn’t heal, it just gets lived with. Birthdays become complicated when the day that’s supposed to celebrate your arrival also marks the day you were given away.