Napo 13

 

Admiring “Birthday” by Grace Q. Song

 

This poem’s pretty sad, but the title is birthday, so there’s this juxtaposition that’s really interesting. It’s about a speaker’s grandmother’s birthday, but at the same time, the grandmother is dying. And the speaker is just at the age where she understands this.

 

The poem begins with a somber gathering—the family is finally together, after living most of their lives apart. There’s a father, two sisters, an aunt, and an uncle, and then an elderly, frail grandmother. The grandmother is the focus of the poem: “her body hauled / like a ship onto a wheelchair.”

 

I think she has some kind of dementia, because the grandmother can’t recognize her family right away. This is particularly good writing: “the strangled echo of a groan falls out / of her mouth.” We can feel how far gone this woman is, how she’s suffering.

 

The family then sings happy birthday to the old woman, “our voices like ravens / trying to find each other in the dark”

 

That’s my favorite part of the poem. It’s a gorgeous way to describe what the family is doing. I think of “the dark” as grief. They’re singing not so much for the grandmother but to guide each other through this difficult experience.

 

It isn’t until the end of the poem that we learn of the real gravity of the situation. The speaker tells it plainly, though she’s shown it in the previous images quite well: “She is dying,” she tells us starkly, “and we are singing / happy birthday, and there is no cake.”

 

So the birthday isn’t a joyous one but instead is filled with grief. Again, I admire the strange way the speaker makes a birthday seem morose. Indeed, a birthday just means we’re all closer to death, but for this subject, it’s a little closer, and the day marks it as so for the ones who will be left to grieve her.

 

 

 

 

Prompt ideas:

What are some moments that should be happy, but are sad?

 

Or what are some moments that should be sad, but instead are happy?

 

 

I was so happy and grateful today to be able to bring my own trashcans in from the curb, for the first time in a long time. I was able to do this without pain, without difficulty, nimbly and freely at the moment I chose.

 

On trash day, it means you’ve made it through the week

It means your unburdened, finally, of all the mistakes

You’ve made. It means your bin is finally empty,

Ready to receive those pieces of yourself you’ll toss away,

Like wads of hair,

 

Don’t ever leave your trashcans out

Past noon on garbage day.

 

 

Today, while wheeling my trashcans

Back from the curb, I can’t help but grin.

 

The grey sky frames this dreary moment—

It should be spring. Instead, winter

 

Claws against my skin. The scent of the season

We’re leaving behind lingers, too. How many

 

Years has it been since I was able to do this

For myself, at the moment of my choosing?

 

I’m walking on my own two feet. I’m pushing

Through. The world is cold but also kind.

 

And how kind of the garbage man to always

Take away a week’s worth of burdens

 

Without a fuss, without fanfare, without praise.

The empty can is all he leaves in his wake—

 

Meh. I think I have a better idea: I’m going to write about Jesus the trashman

 

 

Trash Day 2

 

Good Lord, how much garbage this season

Creates! It’s spring—and everyone is making room

 

For the new. On the Monday after Easter,

I realize it’s garbage day, which is fortunate

 

because the can is full again. This time it brims

with plastic grass and candy wrappers,

 

the pastel innards of cascarones, the dyed shells, too.

I wheel the cans to the curb without a thought,

 

Without a care. And soon, without much fanfare,

The truck with rumble through this city street

 

And unburden me of everything, the weight

Of a week of gluttony and sloth. It all gets dumped

 

Into the truck. I don’t even have to see it,

Smell it, feel its heft against my bones.

 

The garbage man, bless him, leaves nothing

In his wake, save a can as empty as a tomb.