Clint stares down at the pink
frosted cake taking up the
entire mahogany table his
knees are tucked under. In
just a few hours, his older
sister should be puffing the
flames away with her wishes.
Birthdays are bathed in those
things. Candles on cakes being
comparable to fairies and
genies. The favorite day of
children alike. Then, shoving
thick cooked batter down
their throats like oxygen.
Clint refuses to join the
festivities this year; he
heads up to his hideaway
bedroom. She should blow
out the candles, but she
won’t. And behind everyone’s
celebrating eyes, you catch
a waft of their denial.
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