Expectations

I sit at my desk and lean back in the Ikea chair - a good purchase and has not fallen apart like I predicted. I replay a voicemail from a cousin informing me of mom's birthday party this weekend. To my right I see the birthday card that I keep forgetting to send. I pick it up, rereading, nice message but not sure I believe it. Does that really matter? Drop the card, give a gift and check it off the list. A family joke is mom keeps a scorecard - a checklist of who does what for her. There is a picture of dad holding me on a nearby shelf. Regardless of the stories about dad, I miss him. It was a covid funeral, so abrupt, sterile and restrained. I feel the anger stir within me, most of those invited to the upcoming birthday party never reached out offering any type of condolence - no card, no call, no text, no Facebook message, no appearance at the funeral home, nothing. Has it ever been easier to send a message with so many options? It bothered me then and it bothers me now, a slight I cannot shake. Sure, he was not the best person, but they did not know him or even seen the man in probably 30 years. Am I a good person? Are they? The anger continues to rise and in one swipe, a stack of books flies across the room, hitting the door.

"Everything okay down there?" My wife yells from upstairs.

"Yep!"

I sigh, stand up and collect the books, returning them to the desk. My aunt died recently, and I was there offering sympathy and assistance. Did I want to? Did it matter? I prepare the birthday card and walk to the mailbox, flip the flag up, deciding I will not attend the party. I will spend a different day with mom.