Birthday Girl

It's my birthday today
They say.
I'm eighty-nine today
They say.

(I don't remember)

This is my favorite restaurant
They say.
All my friends have come
They say.

(I don't know their names)

This gift is just what I wanted
They say.
The cake has pink icing.

I remember turning seven at sea.
We had four o'clock tea under the awning
on the starboard deck. The ocean slept silvery grey,
the seagulls wheeling and pleading like naughty puppies.

All my friends were there: Jennifer and Meg,
Lucie showing off her new white shoes,
Rosalyn, Patricia and Marie.
Baby Timmy awake and shouting in the sunshine,
with Miss Alice to keep him from going through the rails.

I was wearing my flowery pinafore,
crackly with starch and smocking, ivory-buttoned
over my Sunday cotton. Silky ribbons
-Mamma did my pigtails- shimmery pink
to match the icing on the chocolate cupcakes.

I remember nibbling -like a lady-
cucumber sandwiches cut in tiny wedges,
salmon pinwheels, scones with peach preserves.
I poured the tea; I was the hostess, gracious
queen of Mamma's lily-of-the-valley china.

My birthday cupcake wore a candied violet
t'were a pity to eat. It graced my ship trunk
until Miss Alice, unpacking, threw it away
because she said
it smelled of mothballs.

It's my birthday today.
I'm eighty-nine.

They say.