FACING THE BOOK

I have two Jewish friends born on Christmas, three if we count the oldest one. I have no friends born on New Year’s Eve, which is surprising in a population of 621.

I cannot schedule a tea date with all 621, although the oldest one is always free. I cannot hold 621 faces in my mind at once, no matter how small I make the squares, although they all resemble the oldest one.

I met them in the sandbox and seminary, which was also a sandbox. They lent me copies of The Hobbit and failed to ask me to the prom. They taught my first-grade class when they were barely out of second gear. They knew someone who passed along my quotes, which made them think we might meet somewhere better than a room. They make a mockery of space, punching holes in walls of the universe so we can be together.

We watch each other lose and gain weight and husbands and resurrections. We are cryptic and flamboyant and unwise. Far from tea, the new hire can style herself a snow leopard or a maenad. When the square is small, but the resolution is high, the great-aunt can post prayers with no paragraph breaks.

I do not always recognize their faces. I press a button that adds a heart to their jar. They produce children and dissertations. They blurt position papers on foreign policy and definitive rankings of Little Debbie cakes. They curate or erupt, and only the oldest one knows which.

I tell them I am happy, and they like it. I tell them I am limping, and yellow faces loft across my net. The medium’s tender genius is the “care” button. The smiley face goes earnest, armless hands clasping his own heart. This is the face behind the faces in the book by the oldest one. These are digital teacups where we catch each other’s tears.

We miss each other’s meanings. There are notes that can only be passed between hands that sweat. We see through a glass covered in fingerprints. We cannot look into each other’s actual size eyes.

I wake at 3am and squint at the birthday list. I want to know when all 621 arrived. I make bleary theories about children born on the same day. I wonder why I have been loved by so many under the sign of the water-bearer. I wonder why professors clump in September.

I wonder how to tell them what I know without embarrassing them. I write a paragraph to a boy I have not seen since he gave me a Green Day CD in 1994. I backspace. I write, “happy, blessed, beautiful birthday to Jay, who is luminous and loved.” He likes it.

I wonder if I like this space too much. It is a fairyland for those who live in huts of words. I do not need to dab concealer under my eyes. I do not need to zip my coat, stumble downstairs, and worry that I will interrupt you. There is no silence to bear. I can skim if you ramble. I can say your young and your geraniums are lovely without really looking. I can be ecstatic and monastic, shouting 621 praises loud enough to be heard from my underground.

I decide this is good enough, since I am not yet good. I thank the oldest one that I can know 621 birthdays and choose my words like apples. I know I ask too much from words and armless hands.

The levees fail, and I am glad we are all here together. A father dies or a diagnosis bellows. I cannot make it there in time for tea. I drag soft sandbags and swaddle half-strangers. I write what I could not come up with in person. I join the mourners in hundreds of boxes. We weep with those who weep. The oldest one wails.

I ask my grandmother to pray that my words may be dew. She sits in a rectangle on my desk, celebrating Christmas 1987 for all time. Her sweater is covered in holly. Her yellow ringlets have been individually curled. She is wearing a gold heart ring that I am now wearing. She was a living RSVP “yes.” She would find a way to gather 621 for tea.

She would love the chance to offer cartoons of kittens in Paris telling all the people “God loves you, and so do I!” She was multimedia. She was the oldest one’s favorite. She said Lou Minto looked like Warren Beatty. She believed he would look at me someday. I wonder if she knows he is now a cardiologist and that not one hair remains upon his head.

I ask her to pray for me. She always says yes. She is patient. The oldest one is patient. They know I have to write “happy birthday” many times. They know Christmas is always coming. They let me hide and tug up my cowl. They let me play cat’s cradle with the distance, stretching years like mozzarella until my arms can reach no further. They are close enough to love 621 and look into their eyes, actual size.

Angela Townsend is the Development Director at Tabby’s Place: a Cat Sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Bridge Eight, CutBank, Lake Effect, Paris Lit Up, Pleiades, and Terrain, among others. Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 33 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life affectionately.