There are five cell phones, four tablets, one laptop, and a TV in my house, yet somehow no one can ever tell me what day or time it is anymore. Our household is suspended in an awkward, neverending Sunday since the outbreak. The kind that you plan to get up early to get a jump on a hobby or school project, but, upon seeing the grey sky outside, simply declare to hell with it and snuggle even deeper into the covers for another few hours of sleep.
But, we remember birthdays, even as the days bleed together. Undoubtedly, there are more muted celebrations for birthdays happening. Events like weddings and baby showers cancelled or pushed back.
We’re either asleep, and praying for Grandad and Nana who live in the Bronx to pull through. Or awake and waiting for the death tolls on the evening news to stop ticking up. We try to remember birthdays though.
My youngest sister is turning eight, and obviously, can’t invite any of her friends from Islamic school, or soccer practice, or karate over to celebrate. She and my brother live with my Ma and stepdad. Their tudor house with the slanted roof feels lightyears away on an average day, further now.
Not to be deterred, she wakes up bright and early on her personal, self-proclaimed holiday ecstatic at turning a year older. On her little table are two colorfully wrapped presents, waiting. Our six-year-old brother is the first to greet her with a squealed happy birthday in his high-pitched voice.
She video chats from Ma’s lap with her relatives in the Bronx and Long Island and Nigeria, also nestled in and waiting for the coronavirus storm to simmer. Lil’ sis changes her birthday outfit twice by dinner, finally settling on an ensemble to match her Hello Kitty crown and stuffed doll she’s clutching.
They order Domino’s pizza and fresh cupcakes from Martha’s Country Bakery for the two kids. Ma suits up in gloves and a mask pulled over her hijab, and stepdad in a hoodie, to retrieve the food in the car, since it’s too far to trek on foot to pick up. Gas is $2.39 a gallon at the station around the corner on Utica Avenue, and the traffic is light with plenty of cars taking advantage of all the space to speed through the streets. An unintended side effect of the outbreak has gas prices lowering throughout the state.
When they return, just to be on the safe side, she leaves most of the candles unlit so the child can skip blowing spit all over the desserts and wipes down the packaging of things with bleach wipes.
There’s no decorations to clean up or a real schedule, but the kids do get to stay up pretty late to work off the sugar hitting their systems like a can of nitrogen exploding.
She plays with her gifts, rips through the house, and watches a steady supply of Disney movies.
As they come down for bed, Ma stands above her to wish her another happy birthday and reminds her to say her surahs or an excerpt from the Quran she’s learned as a nighttime prayer. “It’s still my birthday,” she pouts as she tucks into the blanket on her pink race car bed. “And it was the best birthday Mommy.”
