My Sixth Birthday Party

 

My Sixth Birthday Party

 

One of the most cherished memories with my parents is from my sixth birthday, a day that overflowed with laughter, love, and a rare sense of wholeness. Just the year before, my mother had returned home from the Tuberculosis Sanitarium, and since then, we had settled into a new house, one that came with a stunning backyard. I can still picture it—the sprawling, sunlit lawn and a large, covered patio adorned with the most gorgeous bougainvillea, its magenta blooms cascading down the wall, forever linking that vivid plant to a memory of joy and resilience.

This was the birthday party of birthday parties. There were two tables brimming with children—most of them cousins, others likely schoolmates, though the specifics of their faces have faded over time. What I remember most are the adults, particularly the mix of family from both sides. My dad’s family, all the Los Angeles-based aunts and uncles, filled one side, cheerful and warm. On my mom’s side, there were close friends and relatives, including a couple who had arrived from Europe that very day. They were Holocaust survivors, and to see them there, joining us on such a happy occasion, gave the gathering a sense of hope and gratitude that even my young mind could feel.

Aunt Rose, my mom’s sister-in-law, was there too, with her new husband Beno. Her first husband—my mother’s brother—wasn’t allowed to enter the U.S. due to his health and had died in Israel. Even so, the presence of Rose and Beno felt like a nod to my mother’s family in every sense, as if the love in that backyard could extend all the way across the ocean, covering painful distances and filling the gaps left by loss.

The gifts were many, though one in particular stood out—a pogo stick, which turned out to be a highlight of the day. I remember bouncing on it, with other kids lining up to take their turn, laughter echoing through the yard as the sun dipped lower in the sky. My dad was at the grill, flipping steaks on several barbecues, while my mom made her famous potato salad. She seemed full of life that day, a picture of health and warmth, radiating joy in a way that made her nearly glow. In the years that followed, I’d know her differently, her health fragile in both body and mind. But on this day, she was vibrant, a woman at the heart of her family, and every moment seemed to revolve around her smile.

My favorite cousins, Barbara Ann and Larry, were there. Barbara was a year older and a best friend to me, while Larry was several years older and someone I looked up to. Later on, my parents would worry about his influence, but on that day, he was simply a hero to his younger cousin. My best friend, Kenny, was there too. His mother, Mariam, was my mom’s best friend, and I’ll never forget how my mom and Mariam had matching, bold red-dyed hair, which they both wore like a banner of their friendship.

It was a day when my parents felt like the happiest people in the world, their love steady and sure, their world centered around me. I didn’t know then what I know now—that I was adopted, or what, if anything, the others knew about that. All I knew was that on that warm day, under a canopy of bougainvillea, I felt embraced by the joy of the adults, the laughter of the children, and the rare, irreplaceable feeling of belonging. The party lingered well into the night, the backyard illuminated by the soft glow of lights, and in my heart, that glow has never dimmed.