15 days to the end. It was my birthday, I had never been fond of any celebrations, let alone at such a gray moment, but my father insisted on celebrating it. Positively, he said this would be a prelude to a grander celebration that we would have the following year.
When I got home from a walk that evening, I saw our kitchen was clumsily adorned with some ineptly hung confetti, streamers and balloons. I could barely imagine my unadventurous father cracking his head to come up with such decoration ideas.
Having my favourite cyan and white as the background colours, there was a two-tier lemon cake set on the dining table, at a slight distance from my mother’s photo on the shelf next to it.
The cake, the decorations, the choice of colours....I could easily sense my father’s subtle affection in every single detail. Sounding softly and sheepishly, my father sang the birthday song and told me to make a wish.
Silently in my heart, I wished I could be granted a few more birthday celebrations with my father. However, I failed to cast away the image that abruptly loomed over my head, the image of a birthday cake sitting solitarily on the cold dining table with the pictures of my mother and me nearby......