Birthday

He loved the park across the street. Sometimes, after school, his older sister would walk him across the green pedestrian bridge that spanned the cement river below, the occasional car speeding down.

But today was a special day. It was a warm day in late May, rare in San Francisco. Not only that, but he was turning six. All his friends he made in Kindergarten would be there, including some of the children who weren't.

He knew what a birthday was. It was a day when his parents smiled a lot and took a lot of pictures and looked tired and exhausted at the end. He had observed this very phenomenon before at other birthday parties, at swimming pools and bowling alleys and museums. The parents would smile a pained smile as the children ran circles around them. At play time and cake time and presents time, always smiling, or chatting with other grown ups, gesturing occasionally toward their specific child.

So on this particular morning, he was especially excited as he brushed his teeth and even more excited as he velcroed his Power Rangers shoes onto his feet.

I could go on, but I feel tired. I could describe his yellow t-shirt with a pocket over the left breast that felt too hot in the sun. I could tell you about the juice he spilled on himself and the way it felt sticky against his skin for the rest of the day, except that after a while he stopped noticing. I could go on about the guests, and how some of them were friends, and some of them he felt ambivalent towards. I could go into the complexities of the social life of a six year old, but right now, I don't have the energy.