A stone from memory lane: my fifth birthday

I remember almost nothing from the first six years of my life – for various reasons I am only now beginning to really understand – but a particular moment (a positive one) from my fifth birthday still stays with me.

At that time, we used to live on the top floor of a huge three-flat in West Rogers Park for a few years. I have vague memories of the place – mostly with how the apartment was laid out – living room tucked behind the front entrance to the side, kitchen in the back side corner, dining room immediately in front of the front entrance, bedrooms all against the western wall. I have vague memories of the piano (which my mom still has, by the way), my rubber blocks in the living room while listening to my dad’s ‘80s-style ambient music, my nightlight, the toy I had that had a picture of the moon while playing “when you wish upon a star” to lull me to sleep… and so on. Now that I’m thinking about it, I could probably access a lot more memories from those days if I wanted.

A year after my fifth birthday, everything would change, some of it necessary, all of it painful. But on that day, I was in my element. We used to have this light fixture in the dining room that probably would have passed for a chandelier in a serf’s house. There was a ring that held five lightbulb fixtures, attached to the ceiling by a pole or by chains… I don’t remember which. But what fascinated me about this fixture the most was when one or more of these lightbulbs would burn out. Specifically, I admired looking at four that were on and one that wasn’t, and how it affected the room. There was just something about how it looked, particularly each time a different one went out. I was transfixed by the artistry of it all.

On the cake for my fifth birthday I had five candles, exactly in the setup of the dining room light fixture (my request, if I recall correctly). I recall blowing one candle out, and then just waiting. My cake imitated what it looked like when only one lightbulb was burnt out, except this time I got to pick which one. My mom and dad urged me to blow out the rest of the candles, because, well, a.) they will melt into the cake if I wait too long, and b.) we can’t have cake until I finish the deed. After what seemed like a pleasant eternity to me, I relented and blew the other four out. But what sticks with me today is just sitting there, admiring the one blown-out candle, and the four that were still lit. Whatever the challenges that were happening during the first six years of my life, this brief moment of artistry and having things look exactly how I wanted was one of those rare moments where I could have some peace, where I could actually be happy.