Another Year

My sister texted, bright and brief:

'What do you want?' A small relief,

but then it hits, that bitter taste,

of twenty years ago, that wasted

bright balloons and paper hat.

The one where no one came, but that

is not quite true. My mother tried,

a brave, small lie, and quietly cried

in the kitchen, out of sight.

She'd bought a cake, too big, too sweet,

from the Safeway. It began to sweat

right on the counter, pink and green.

The frosting melted, a sugary sheen

pooled on the cardboard, thick and grim.

I watched it, wishing for the dim

of evening, for the day to end.

And now, her text, what do I want, my friend?