Number 16...
Once upon a time there was a little girl who didn’t like birthdays. She didn’t mind other people’s birthdays, they were a cause for celebration, it was just her own she didn’t like. As she grew older, her condition grew worse. She would refuse to attend the increasingly lavish birthday parties her parents held on the anniversary of her birth. The final straw came on her eighteenth birthday. When her mother came to wake her, the girl who was now almost a young lady was nowhere to be seen. Her father sent his men high and low to look for her but the whereabouts of the girl remained a mystery. The party went on ahead but it was hardly a birthday party without the guest of honour. Her aunts wailed, the elephants hired to attend the party flapped their large African ears and the tiered birthday cake was brought out with little to none fanfare.
The next day, the girl returned home, dirty, dishevelled but with a triumphant gleam in her eye. The following year, there was no party. There was a card from her parents but nobody else mentioned her birthday. This was what she wanted. As she grew into a lady, she almost forgot about the anniversary of her day of birth. Sometimes she would remember on the eve of the day, sometimes a week or two after. Often there was a pang attached to the memory but she pushed it away.
Her blatant unusualness caused suitors to be far and few between. A girl with a seeming distaste for presents was not an easy woman to woo. She was courted by royalty but the prospect of becoming Queen and having one’s birthday be turned into a national holiday was enough to make her send those handsome princes packing.
One day an old man arrived at the house. Some say he was a wizard, other say he was a wise man, still others say he was a wizened man. It was the day of her birthday. He announced that he has come to honour the girl’s birthday. She raised her eyebrows. Birthdays were not to be mentioned.
The woman, for she was surely now a woman, tossed her pretty blonde hair. “I do not care for presents. And I especially do not care for birthdays”
“I am here to give you a present. For what is a birthday celebration without any presents?” the man said into his beard, as he fumbled in his bag. He pulled out a small wooden box. It was about the length of his arm and about half that for the width. It was small, but impossibly large to have been in that bag. He laid it at her feet.
She glanced at it. Then back at him. Then back at the box.
“What’s inside?” she asked after a lengthy pause.
He broke into a broad grin. “Curiosity killed the cat. Or don’t they teach that in schools nowadays?”
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
He shrugged also, mimicking but not mocking. “I have no idea what’s inside. Got it from a fellow named Schrödinger. The box can’t be opened, it’s sealed shut with lead. But I saw it and thought of you”
The woman studied the box. She crouched down and pressed her ear to the wood. She felt, rather than heard, a slight movement inside. She ran a finger over the lead sealant. She then stared at the man, feeling the weight of the world shift ever so minutely.
“Perhaps a small birthday luncheon could be arranged,” she said in a small voice, taking the old man by the arm.
“With cake?” he asked. “I certainly didn’t come all this way not to have a piece of cake.”
The box continued to lie peacefully on the floor, as they left the room presumably to discuss the ideal flavour of birthday cake. If one stared at the box, it didn’t have the tension of an unexploded bomb. Instead it had the quiet aura of a not yet opened rose bud. It truly was the best present of all. It could never be opened, instead it was a present to be savoured. The promise of what was to come. And that was what birthdays were after all, not commiserating that things have passed and will never be again but a celebration of all the things that might be.
The next day, the girl returned home, dirty, dishevelled but with a triumphant gleam in her eye. The following year, there was no party. There was a card from her parents but nobody else mentioned her birthday. This was what she wanted. As she grew into a lady, she almost forgot about the anniversary of her day of birth. Sometimes she would remember on the eve of the day, sometimes a week or two after. Often there was a pang attached to the memory but she pushed it away.
Her blatant unusualness caused suitors to be far and few between. A girl with a seeming distaste for presents was not an easy woman to woo. She was courted by royalty but the prospect of becoming Queen and having one’s birthday be turned into a national holiday was enough to make her send those handsome princes packing.
One day an old man arrived at the house. Some say he was a wizard, other say he was a wise man, still others say he was a wizened man. It was the day of her birthday. He announced that he has come to honour the girl’s birthday. She raised her eyebrows. Birthdays were not to be mentioned.
The woman, for she was surely now a woman, tossed her pretty blonde hair. “I do not care for presents. And I especially do not care for birthdays”
“I am here to give you a present. For what is a birthday celebration without any presents?” the man said into his beard, as he fumbled in his bag. He pulled out a small wooden box. It was about the length of his arm and about half that for the width. It was small, but impossibly large to have been in that bag. He laid it at her feet.
She glanced at it. Then back at him. Then back at the box.
“What’s inside?” she asked after a lengthy pause.
He broke into a broad grin. “Curiosity killed the cat. Or don’t they teach that in schools nowadays?”
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
He shrugged also, mimicking but not mocking. “I have no idea what’s inside. Got it from a fellow named Schrödinger. The box can’t be opened, it’s sealed shut with lead. But I saw it and thought of you”
The woman studied the box. She crouched down and pressed her ear to the wood. She felt, rather than heard, a slight movement inside. She ran a finger over the lead sealant. She then stared at the man, feeling the weight of the world shift ever so minutely.
“Perhaps a small birthday luncheon could be arranged,” she said in a small voice, taking the old man by the arm.
“With cake?” he asked. “I certainly didn’t come all this way not to have a piece of cake.”
The box continued to lie peacefully on the floor, as they left the room presumably to discuss the ideal flavour of birthday cake. If one stared at the box, it didn’t have the tension of an unexploded bomb. Instead it had the quiet aura of a not yet opened rose bud. It truly was the best present of all. It could never be opened, instead it was a present to be savoured. The promise of what was to come. And that was what birthdays were after all, not commiserating that things have passed and will never be again but a celebration of all the things that might be.