A MAP OF BIRTHDAYS

1950

I'm two years old,
but I guess there's no party
this year.
Instead, they show me
at Aunt Sara and Uncle Harry's
with that cake on a coffee table
just my size,
all those little pottery animals
I loved to play with
standing in a group beside it,
the glass top reflecting it all
as if there were more of us.

1951

I'm all set for the party,
the table's laid out
with favors and napkins,
the cake's in the center,
but no one except for me here.

1952

Daddy, you've got it wrong.
You took everyone at the table
with their favors in their mouths
ready to blow them
and their party hats on
but you forgot to make sure
I'm in the picture.

1956

This was one of those times
you took pictures with your polaroid,
and it came out too dark.
All I can make out
are these shadows sitting
on the sofa and others
on the floor in front of it
and the only ones I recognize
are myself and Mommy,
me cause I remember that dress,
Mommy cause she's bigger
and sits apart from us.
And oh yeah, that looks like Phyllis.

1960s

All through this time
there are no pictures,
partly because I thought
I looked awful, and simply
didn't want to see myself
almost out of fear
that would prove me wrong.
By 1964 I had quit school
and I had no friends.
Except for Jack, that is.
I guess it must have been
for my 16th birthday
he bought me a charm
with three red stones in it.
The last time I saw my grandmother
in the nursing home, she told me
a lie about someone telling her
how hard he worked for it,
yet when he went to pick it up
he still didn't have enough money.
I'd never bothered to tell her
I was no longer seeing Jack.

1971

Who could ask for a happier birthday?
My first book came out on the first,
I gave a reading on the 2nd,
Daniela threw a party on the 3rd
where Norman took pictures.
This is how I chose to see myself:
in Daniela's daughter's room
holding the koala bear
Frani gave her,
a group picture where I kneel
at the feet of my publisher,
and with four poet friends
I wrote an article on,
the four of them grinning
even though Hugh almost never smiles,
their arms on each other's shoulders
while I'm in front of them
smiling my head off.

1977

There's no picture to document this.
My parents remembered my birthday
as they always do
and two friends remembered it also,
though all three cards came yesterday
and nothing but junk mail today.
More than anything I wish I were alone
but a friend's staying here
for a few days and I'm ashamed
of wanting to hibernate; it's as if
I were growing backwards.

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Copyright © 1997 by Rochelle Ratner.

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