Author's Notes: This was written in response to a list challange to write a birthday story for Daniel. After several abortive attempts to write a Happy Birthday story, this is what was finally born. 4 out of 5 readers said they needed tissues after this one.

The Chair

Every child who sits in my seat has a story. Most of them are tragic; neglect, abuse, suffering beyond the bounds of human understanding. Occasionally the stories are just sad: accident, all the family lost but this little waif; mother died, single dad just couldn't keep the children together anymore; father's paycheck barely covers the rent, mother has no job, there's simply no way to feed the children.

I've heard them all; seen all kinds too. Obstreperous ones, determined to be as obnoxious as humanly possible, begging for attention of some kind, any kind, just notice me, please; the ones trying to be pleasant, who desperately desire to gratify, in hopes someone will want them again; the feet swingers, the ones who notice everything, but know in their hearts their fate is already sealed, yet their indomitable spirit keeps them fighting long after hope is gone; and then there are the quiet ones, the ones who seem to fold in on themselves the minute their feet leave the floor, whose arms wrap forlornly around their middles because the world has already forgotten they exist and there are no other arms to hold them anymore.

I am old and have known much sorrow, but I have never encountered such a wealth of grief as this little one holds that rests upon my heartwood now. You will think me dense for using the word wealth in this circumstance. But his grief is rich in his understanding of what he has lost; abounding in memories of an all encompassing, unconditional love; possessed of an instinctive capacity to bend without breaking. Oh yes, he has a wealth of grief wrapped up inside those small arms.

Never in all my years of service has a child affected me in quite this fashion. I desire to wrap my arms around him; will my legs to walk him out of this forlorn and barren place; feel the need to turn the bars in my back into an impenetrable fence to screen out the ugliness here that will try to suck out his soul. I must break the enchantment that holds us both and return him to the fairy tale he has been stolen from, for he cannot be of mortal flesh and blood.

And yet, he sits calmly, half-closed sky blue eyes focused on the toes of scuffed tennis shoes, arms wrapped tightly over his chest, and though he is still, I feel him rocking inside, comforting himself, all the while humming over and over, the same soundless tune; happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Daniel, happy birthday to me.

A wealth of grief indeed.

The End