Remember To Feel Special, Alright?

It’s my tenth birthday. It’s a Friday morning, and I’m home alone. My mother is working downtown at the pharmacy, and my father is working right behind her as a conductor at the rail yard. She can see him out the window. When the store is empty, she used to tell me that she’d watch him and fall in love with him over and over again, every day.

I’m walking down the short hallway of my old house on Dover. My eyes are still concrete heavy, and I’m wiping them continuously with both hands. I have a faint memory of my father coming in my room the evening before to tell me he was sorry he wasn’t going to be home in the morning, but that he’d pick me up from school and we’d go get pizza at my favourite spot in town. He tussled my hair, and every year, like clockwork, the first thing he said was, “Can you do me a favour, kiddo?” I’d say “sure.” And he’d say “make sure you feel special today, alright?” And I’d say, “yeah, no problem, dad.”

Once a week, he had a night shift that bled right into a day shift, and for this unlucky year, it fell on my birthday. I heard him talking to my mom before I fell asleep the night before, and he told her he tried to get it off, but the new boss was making cuts anywhere he could, and my father, at that time, was low man on the totem pole. He said it pissed him off to no avail, but he was scared of being thrown into the unemployment line. So, he agreed to work it.

The house is quiet. I live only two blocks from my school, so my plan is to just grab a pop tart and hit the road. My buddy Chris lives four houses down, so I’ll stop in and see if he wants to walk to school together.

I turn the corner, and the dining room table is filled from end to end with comic books. In the center is an envelope with a red bow on the top. I rush over and scan the table. My eyes are going back and forth too fast to concentrate on any one issue.

I see Superman, Spider-Man, Gambit, X-Men, and even two Daredevil issues that we saw on a trip to see my grandparents a couple of months back. I knew those issues weren’t in the small comic shop on the corner of Main and Water. My father must have picked them up when I went to the car on our last trip. I remember him saying he had to run back in to use the bathroom as soon as I buckled myself in the car.

I open the envelope. There’s a blank white card with “You say it’s your birthday?” written in a small black font. I open it up, and The Beatles start singing, “You say it’s your birthday. We’re gonna have a good time. I’m glad it’s your birthday. Happy Birthday to you.”

Written on the bottom in my father’s barely legible handwriting, was “Sorry I couldn’t be there this morning, pal. But remember to feel special alright? I’ll pick you up at 3 and we’ll stuff our faces with greasy pizza. Love, Dad.”

I’ve had plenty of happy memories since then, but this is always one that sticks out. Having kids of my own it always reminds me of the power of memory. And that it isn’t always the grand gestures that stake their claim in a child’s mind, it’s often just the thoughtful ones.