John and I were invited to a party. Which is in itself an anomaly.  While there was a time back in college when the words "Saturday night" ignited possibilities, these old folks pretty much stay at home. Reruns or a good book are all the excitement we need. 

 

It was an adults only event, but since the hosts are card carrying members of the "We Love Someone who Struggles" club we took the liberty of bringing Benjamin. I didn't have to say birthday twice before he leaped up to put on his suit. 

 

There are times when I am convinced that Benjamin is not listening. There are no physical signs that he is. But when the first line of "Happy birthday to you" hit the air, I knew that he would emerge from the periphery of the next room to come front and center. He knows the sequence. You sing. You blow out the candles. Then you eat cake. 

 

During the evening I had the chance to listen to a bunch of dear people who, like myself, are often home on a weekend evening. Living their own imperfect lives. One woman described her experience with cancer. Which she won. We sat behind a woman who is currently fighting the same demons, and we blew our blended prayers in her direction. Another friend who is burnt-out by her job in social work alluded, without breaking confidentiality, the horrors that routinely happen to children. A different woman teared up when I asked after a young man that she cares deeply about whose life has hit a new low. I asked a woman about her job, and she did not hesitate to announce that she hates it. The demands are enormous, and going home by nine or ten o'clock is a relief. There was a room full of other people I did not get to speak with. Women whose hearts are heavy with trying to prop up their sisters, or neighbors. Mothers whose children died too soon. A man whose life has been gobbled up by medical appointments. People whose parents are prisoners to dementia. 

 

My grandfather wrote a book called My Own Four Walls, and the thought occurred to me that while those walls can be a circumference of safety, they can also create the illusion of isolation. In the ignorance of the stories that play out on the other side of siding I can believe the mirage that my life is harder, or easier, better, or worse than anyone else's.

 

But after the candles were out and it was time to take Benjamin home to bed, I noticed the icing on his cheek and remembered that I am but one of many.