I could never sleep in anticipation of my birthday. At dawn, Capri would take me by hand to our coop. “I wonder which hens laid eggs,” I would muse. I watched her duck her pale hands under the hen’s feathery breast, extracting the eggs delicately. I checked the carton of eggs for breaks, surveying the rest of my ingredients.

I started the oven in the morning and buttered the pans. On the counter, I laid out the flour, butter, oil, sugar, vanilla, baking powder, salt, milk, egg whites, frosting, and the metal whisk Capri left behind all those years ago. I sifted the powders into a bowl and whisked them gently. While Capri could crack an egg with one hand, I cracked them with both, my muscles throbbing. I poured the batter into the pans and started the timer in the oven. This is the part where she used to hand mix the buttercream. I popped open the lid, using the store-made cream to fill the piping bag.

Before the cake is done, I drag the white linen cloth from the drawer, letting it drift in the air like a ghost. We would have picked all the purple flowers in the backyard, Capri wrapping them into a bouquet with a ribbon. I slid the freshly cut hyacinths into a slender vase, setting them in the center. Once it’s finished, I sit with the cake. Across from it stood the second chair, empty, heavy, and dark.

– Ameera Smith