Birthday/Abigail

The only parties we like are those where there is eighty-five percent family, 
ten percent other people, and five percent animals.
We pick the hottest days to let others know we can take it;
we’re a family of camels, storing our water, our asides and our private jokes
in our doulas. There are conversations that slide around like juices
from a barbecue spit —someone moved to Texas long ago
and we haven’t heard from him; we think the phone was disconnected.
We’ll keep trying, but we just don’t know about Henry. We hope he’s happy.
Maybe he’s at a party just like this one, talking about his two girls,
Anastasia and Gabrielle, and we wonder if they’re still as pretty as their names.
The divorce was so long ago, but no one remarried, thinking that maybe
marriage isn’t really such a good idea after all. It’s hard, but then,
You have someone in the room who is newly divorced, and my nieces are asking him
the names of his favorite dates, where they went for dinner, and what they ate.
So there is hope indoors and out, cooking up hushpuppies,
pouring more steamed crabs on the camp tables covered with butcher paper
taped down in the corners, skin-so-soft and citronella candles
scaring away the fireflies that congregate and show off in the garden corners.
There is homemade cake, and everyone recites what we know:
that you buy a cake for someone you like, and you bake a cake for someone you love.
No one sings “happy birthday,” because Abby is 21, and thinks that’s the age you stop singing that song — but you begin to sing others.