My Sixth Birthday
by Karina Mahan
The day of my sixth birthday, my parents took me to a Chinese restaurant. This was one of my precious few childhood memories. I can’t remember much of my life up until my parent’s divorce, which was two years later to the date.
Arriving at the restaurant, we sat down on the red plastic couches and gave our orders to the waitress without looking at the menu. My parents were at it again, fighting. No one really remembers the cause of these quarrels. Most likely some trivial incident—where Dad had put his pair of fancy shoes, or why Mom always left her bath products by the bathroom sink. I held my hands over my ears and pretended not to hear them. Then, from across the room, an Asian woman in a white blouse and bright red skirt gazed shyly in my direction. I looked up at her, grateful for a reason to break away. The woman narrowed her eyes to slits in a strange Asian eye-smile. A long slim finger beckoned me over.
Hypnotized, I slid from the plastic couch and walked to the other side of the room. My parents were too engrossed in their bickering to take note of my absence.
The woman bent over as I neared her. She gently wrapped her cool, dry hands around my head and whispered in my ear.
“You are one of them.”
I giggled. “Who?”
“The sensitive ones.” She nodded, as if that should explain everything.
I cocked my head and tried to look wise for my six years. “What does that mean?”
The woman smiled and put her index finger on my forehead. “You’re not like the others. Guard yourself. You shall be the special one.”
“The special one for what?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
I tottered off back to my table. Mom swiveled around and told me off for wandering. “I’m special,” I announced as the waitress came with a steaming plate of rice.
Dad gave a sad little smile and patted my head. Mom lit another cigarette, and the rest of the memory fades to nothingness.
Karina Mahan lives in Stavanger, Norway. She’s eighteen years old and likes avocados, even though they don't taste like much.