Back when I was six, parties with actual cake and games were still possible. My mother pulled one together for me, and invited eight girls. The photograph that shows up in my revolving screen slideshow is the only picture of a birthday from my childhood. It is not that my parents weren't attentive, it was just that cameras were less ubiquitous in the sixties. 

 

For a brief time in grad school my father had a job taking medical photographs at UPenn. But those were close ups of organs and broken bones. Plus I feel sure he could not bring the pricey camera home. Civilians had to remember to bring one out from the top drawer, find film, get it in focus, finish the roll, take it to the developer, pay for doubles, and glue it in an album. Missing any one of those steps in the chain could derail your efforts to chronicle the event. But people were less invested in photography back then. You could go weeks or months without clicking. 

 

The clutch of little girls in frilly dresses are smiling, or squinting up at the camera. It is a black and white shot, so I cannot tell what colors we were wearing. Did I prefer pink? Such leanings have fallen over completely. 

 

But last week the fourth child at the party died. 

 

These were my best friends, at least until we moved to California a few years later. I am currently too young for retirement. It rattles me to know that half of the guests on that summer afternoon are gone. Jeanette, Shelley, Sandy, Patrice. 

 

I have no memory of the wrapped gifts the girls brought. It matters not a whit half a century later. Probably I cared then. Maybe my mother bought my favorite flavor of ice cream, and even sugar cones. That too has waned in importance. 

 

I believe in heaven with an unshakable faith. But getting there seems a mite scary.

 

Maybe my mother will be there to greet me with an ice cream cone. A flavor I have never had.