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Birthday |
| Written by Joseph Galea | |
| Saturday, 02 February 2008 | |
It was still dark when he woke. It had snowed during the night. He hated snow, especially when he had to drive. And today he had a long drive ahead of him. His daughter was born 21 years ago today, and he had never missed her birthday.
He set some coffee brewing, showered and got dressed. As he nursed the hot coffee mug in his hands he reflected on how he came to be living alone, working at a job he loved, in a city he hated. It hadn’t always been like this. He had been happy once, fulfilled in his wife and their daughter, Maria. They had lived in a village, a three-hour drive north of the city.
He had secured a position with a large architectural practice, and they moved to the city. However, the unfamiliar environment and the new work pressures put a strain on their relationship. Then tragedy had struck. His wife returned to the village with Maria. He visited whenever he could. Now he only went there on Maria’s birthday. A few years ago his wife had moved away. They never divorced. He still loved her, but they had lost touch.
As he left his apartment building the sharp chill in the air made him catch his breath. He wrapped his scarf closer round his neck, cleared the snow from the windshield and got in his car. He stopped at a flower shop and bought 21 long-stem roses, one for each of Maria’s birthdays. She loved roses, especially the yellow ones he always got her. The drive slowed after he left the motorway. The country roads had not been cleared of snow. He blessed the 4-wheel drive and snow tires on his Volvo.
As he turned onto the road that led to the village that had been home, the sun came out. Memories came flooding back. Nostalgia overwhelmed him and tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them off with the back of one hand, the other holding the Volvo on course on the slushy, slippery road. He drove slowly down Main Street. Many things had changed, yet much remained. Jones’ General Store had gone, its place taken by a fashion boutique, looking pretentious and out-of-place. Romanoff’s barbershop, with its rotating striped pole was still there, as were the Horse and Rooster Pub and the Police Station, with its large clock permanently indicating twenty-five past three.
He turned right at the end of the street, and passed St. Andrew’s Church with its pseudo-Gothic spire and trim red brick. The church in its snow-covered grounds was a Christmas card scene come to life. He stopped the car, picked up the roses from the passenger seat and got out. He had arrived.
The wrought iron gate protested its rusty hinges as he pushed it open, and again as he closed it behind him. He walked along the stone footpath he knew was under the still virgin snow, till he came to a large pine tree. He turned off the path and stopped, head bowed, his whole being consumed by emotion. Tears came again, but this time he let them be. He did not hear the gate complain again.
He knelt in the snow, and placed the bouquet of yellow roses against a small, simple headstone on which was inscribed:
MariaA most beloved daughter Taken from us by a drunk driver on her 7th birthday 20th December 1985 We’ll miss you forever, honey. Mum and Dad.
“Happy Birthday, darling” he said. “Happy Birthday,” echoed a familiar voice behind him.
He turned slowly. There, with tears to match his own running down her cheeks, was his estranged wife, as beautiful to him as the day he first met her. She walked up to him. Without a word, she kissed him on the cheek and took his hand. Joined in pain, they stood together in the cold winter sunshine. Copyright 2008 Joseph Galea |
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