By Graeme Richmond Mack

“Daddy, you need to make-ee the cake for mommy’s birthday!” Summer, my three-year-old, shouts out with tiny urgency. “You have to make-ee the cake.”

It’s a cool summer evening, and we’re sitting on the grass in our backyard, while my wife naps inside. I’m gazing out at the tree branches swaying in the breeze. I breathe in and out.

Handing me a shovel, Summer points her finger. I look down at the cluster of white rocks arranged in a circle on a cement slab in front of us.

“It’s mommy’s birthday?”

“Yes. Mommy’s birthday! We have to make-ee the cake.”

I nod and, without a word, take the shovel from her.

I think about Summer’s mommy, my wife, Isabella, who hasn’t been herself all week. Monday night, the phone rang, and Isabella learned her father was gone.

Thursday night it’s a warm and breezy summer evening. We’re sitting on the grass, beneath the giant bay windows of our home.

Taking in the long light of summer, I’m sipping a glass of red wine, gazing up at the sunset’s half-light. Stuck thinking about the passing of things, of my own inevitable death, I’m having trouble focusing.

But I’m trying to be present with Summer as she bakes her imaginary cake for mommy’s imaginary birthday.

With shovels in our hands, Summer and I look down at a circle of white rocks on a cement slab in front of us.

“Mmm…this cake is so tasty!” I say, looking over at Summer, the shovel below my mouth.

“No, no, no, Daddy. You can’t eat it! It’s not ready. Not ready!” Summer shoos the shovel from my mouth with her tiny hand.

“Sorry, honey,” I say, putting my shovel down. “I thought the cake was ready.”

I gaze at the tree branches swaying in the breeze. I smile. I can see the long light. Even after all the pain—I can still see it.

“The cake!” Summer exclaims when she notices I’m distracted. Leaning forward, I adjust a few white rocks in the circle.

“Oh, yes…that’s perfect, daddy!”

I slowly turn a white rock through my fingers, thinking about Isabella playing with her dad as a girl.

“What a beautiful cake, honey.”

In the kitchen, there’s a photograph of them smiling up at the camera. Her middle-aged dad holds a three-year-old Isabella as she tilts her head and her blonde hair tumbles down.

Isabella’s mother used to gaze at it and say, “I remember taking that, Izzy. Do you remember? Your dad had just gotten back from that long work trip overseas.” She would sip her coffee and stare at the photo for a long time. “Boy, did he talk about missing you kids that trip,” she’d say with a faraway look.

It’s getting later out. The sunset’s retreating behind the trees. A purple hue gilds the skyline as the day dies away, darkness sets in. The light of day lives on only in memory.

I think of the night my wife told me about her father’s diagnosis. She pulled out this pamphlet from the glovebox and opened it to a page with a cartoon diagram of the human body.

“Daddy, the moon! I can see the moon!” Summer shouts, sitting up abruptly.

“Wow, isn’t it beautiful, honey?”

I can see the long light, even after all the pain—the doctor’s appointments, the second opinions, the second guessing. I can see the light up ahead, exactly long enough to know it will one day fade away.

I remember my father-in-law once watching Summer play in the backyard. “You never get it, what this feeling is, until you have kids of your own.” His eyes filled with feeling as he shook his head.

I thought he might cry. But I didn’t know why then.

“Yes daddy,” Summer shouts, “So beei-uty-ful!”

Then, squinting at the sky, Summer asks, “Why, daddy, I’m talking to the moon, but the moon’s not talking back?”

I chuckle like my wife’s father used to chuckle. I try to think of something he would’ve said.

“Maybe it’s just a quiet moon tonight, honey.”

“A what?” Summer asks, her curiosity piqued.

“A quiet moon. It’s my favorite kind of moon because it’s good at listening.”

“It’s listening?” Summer shouts as her eyes go big. She squeals, kicks, and throws her head back.

“Yes. When it’s a quiet moon, you can tell it anything. What shall we tell it?”

“I want to say happy birthday to my mommy. That I love my daddy sitting next to me. I want to say that my mommy and daddy are my best friends. I want to say that I miss grandpa.”

“Anything else, honey?” I ask, my eyes tearing up, my stomach dipping.

“Yes. I want to sing like a princess, daddy. I want to run and dance like a ballerina. I want to, I want to, I want to go to the playground in my princess dress. I want to dance like a beautiful mermaid princess on the tallest tower.”

Summer peers up at the sky, telling the moon of the world she adores. The light up ahead—the near side of the moon—glows iridescent overhead.

“That’s beautiful, honey.” I smile, my eyes shaking.

“What’s going on out here, you two?” The latch on the backdoor clicks and Isabella steps out into the backyard, a bundle of jackets under her arm, a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Oh mommy. The birthday cake! The moon!” Summer squeals, pointing upwards.

I look over at Isabella who gazes up at the sky, smiling. “Yes, honey. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Isabella sets the jackets and glass down next to Summer’s imaginary cake. I hold Summer and kiss the top of her head.

“Ok you two. Say cheese,” Isabella says, holding up her phone.

We look up smiling. Summer tucks her cheek into my neck. The phone’s camera flashes, and I see Isabella’s eyes looking back at us from a long time away.

* * *

Graeme Richmond Mack writes flash fiction and historical commentary, which has appeared in literary magazines such as BigCityLit and outlets like the Washington Post, The Conversation, H-Net, Yahoo!News, and the Journal of San Diego History. Originally from Canada, Mack studied history and literature, earning his B.A. at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, M.A. at McGill in Montreal, and Ph.D. at the University of California, San Diego. He lives in Virginia with his wife and young children and teaches college history.
http://www.graememack.com