While the newly-frosted cake was refreezing, I used pink acrylic paint, a light coat of glue, and a sprinkling of white sanding sugar to doll up a couple grocery store candles. I only keep candles in cakes long enough for the pictures anyway, so why not jazz them up for the few seconds they'll last. I stuck toothpicks into the candles' bases to make it easier to poke them into the frozen buttercream.
A few hours later. . .eating and wish-making with Mr. Mike. Ohhh, I want to have driven a lot more before my next birthday, although without owning a car, the amount of driving practice depends on how often we rent one. And I hope to remain in good health and get back into running shape in the next couple years. My biggest goal and dream for the year ahead, though, is to have finished writing a full first draft of the memoir of my 1980s childhood that I've been working on rather sporadically the past few years. Memories of my family, house, friends, street, neighbors, pets, and teachers from those years make me light up like nothing else. The more I write, the more I remember, and while my family and I have many old photos, I've also kept all the diaries I've written since the fourth or fifth grade, and they are detailed treasure troves of memories: TV show theme songs, conversations with my parents, class projects, Christmas and birthday wishlists, first-day-of-school outfits, board games played with my brothers, paperbacks ordered from the school book order flyers, the athletes that thrilled and inspired during the Olympics, the first cassette tapes I ever owned, even a drawing of the view from my bedroom window circa 1987. It is time to put all my notes and paragraphs together and get a rough draft finished. At least a few of you here are published writers, and I hope my own dream of getting the memoir published as book comes true before too long.
My family moved out of my childhood home in late 1988, when I was eleven-and-a-half, and I feel drawn to it like a magnet lately. I haven't visited it since the day we moved, and I've always dreamed of it almost abnormally often, but even more-so this past year. The night of Mike's dad's funeral in March, while we were staying at his parents' house, I had what began as a beautiful dream that my dad and I had gone together to visit our former street. Oh, how I loved our little street! It was a short no-outlet hill of a street hosting only seven homes. And our former house! I have loved few things in my life the way I loved that house. I was so excited that I was about to see it all again, and Dad was humoring me. As we turned the car up the short little hill, I was horrified to see that the street now looked like London's after the Blitz. There was just enough of each house still standing to make it clear which one was which. "My God," Dad kept saying, and remembering his voice even now hurts my heart. I told him I wanted to walk around what was left of the house, and he said he'd seen enough and would wait for me outside. I made my way into what had been our kitchen, and the dream got worse from there and soon ended, one of the worst nightmares I've ever had. I was shaking when I awoke, and I'd somehow woken Mike with my fitful sleep during the dream. "Tonight of all nights," I asked him, "Why would I have to dream something so horrible?" Because his dad had just died? Because I was thinking of my own? Because with the death of one parent, that 80s childhood seemed especially Long Ago and Far Away and finishing the memoir felt that much more urgent? All of the above, I'm sure, but the timing was cruel. It took a long time that night to shake the feeling that I really had just been on that ravaged, silent street with Dad. Four days after the funeral and nightmare, I dreamed that a woman asked me if she could publish my memoir. "Yes, PLEASE!" I practically shouted in response. Yes, I'm paying attention, Universe, and I'm connecting the dots.
While I was home a couple weeks ago, I told Mom how much I wanted to visit "our" street, but from the glimpse of the house visible in the distance as we passed the hill, we could see the current owner in the driveway, and that wasn't the visit I wanted. I will explore it all on my next visit, home, though, Current Owner in the Driveway or not, because it feels more necessary all the time, like I'm being pushed or pulled there.
Before I left this last time, the subject of my sixth-grade science fair project came up while I was talking with my dad, and he said again, as he did a couple years ago, "I think now that those were the best years. All you kids were still little, and Mum and Dad were still alive, and we were going to Ocean City every summer. . . ." And this time when he said it, just like the first time he'd said it, I choked up at his words, and I wished more than ever that I could whip a hardcover copy of my memoir out from under the picnic table and say, "I think those were the best years too. Here's a book I wrote about it." The memoir really is, after all, a love letter to my parents. Thirty-eight begins, then, with not only dreaming, but also writing. What else could have topped my cake this year but a dreaming brunette with love on her lips?! Surely, things are unfolding just as they should here, with death, nightmare, dream, conversation, and cake topper each showing up as they did. Surely, my dream too can come true. By the time I share my next birthday cake, I hope to tell you that I have a finished piece I can start submitting--however-many submissions it takes--for publication. And oh! Please, please let me have my handing-Mom-and-Dad-their-copies-of-my-book moment.