By Dorcas Wilson
After the last guest had left I surveyed the scene: the birthday cake with its sickly pink icing, party poppers and streamers draped over the back of chairs or mixing with crumbs on the floor. The half empty, maybe that should be half full, glasses and the balloons dancing amongst the empty wine bottles.
You would’ve hated it all, especially the balloons. You never let me have balloons as a child. I remember the only time I smuggled one into the house, you covered your ears and screamed as if you’d been shot when it burst next to you; as punishment I had nothing but bread and water for a fortnight.
The things you did don’t matter anymore. So I raise my glass and toast you, “Happy birthday, Mother dear.” On this day a year ago you were burnt to
Dorcas Wilson is a Scottish writer and poet who recently started writing flash fiction.