Happy Birthday Poem by Parisha Shukla

He moved silently
To the master bedroom
Lowered himself on the bed,
Where his wife would lay—
Before she found love elsewhere.

He picked up his phone
Hovered his finger over the call button
Not wanting to disturb his daughter,
She was all grown up now—
Her father was forgotten about.

He dusted an old album
Flipping through the pages slowly
Tracing the photographs with his fingertips,
Of his best friend grinning—
He died first.

He closed his eyes
Raking the corners of his brain
For his mother's voice
Longing to hear it one last time—
She hadn't been around for a long while.

He looked at the cigarette butts
Lying on the edge of the table
Breakfast, lunch and dinner
He hadn't tasted anything else—
Nobody taught him how to cook.

He locked the door behind him
As he got into his car
Gripping onto the steering wheel
Not sure if he remembers how to drive—
Father gave him that lesson when he was 15.

He drove slowly
Analyzing the little things that pass him
Vehicles, Lights, Road signs
Love, marriage, children—
It was a one way road after all.

He stopped at the grocery store
Picked up a chocolate bar,
The kind his wife craved when she was expecting,
Hoping he'd remember what it felt like—
To be a husband.

He stopped at the clothing store
And picked out a pair of socks
A size that would fit only newborns,
Hoping he'd remember what it felt like—
To be a father.

He stopped at the park
And sat down on a seesaw
Nobody on the other side,
Hoping he'd remember what it felt like—
To be a son.

He stopped at the bakery
And looked for the biggest cake,
Preferably one with no icing
Hoping he'd remember what it felt like—
To be celebrated.

He stopped at the train station
Walked down to the track
Laid down comfortably,
The way he would
Beside his mother,
Beside his wife,
Beside his daughter,

He smiled
And whispered—

Happy birthday

He was happy
At least he remembered.