"Forgotten" by Taylor Gibson

                I rub my wet, tired eyes and then stretch out my arms, tight from the past night’s rest.  I sit up and crawl out of my warm, cozy bed, but not with the usual mood of dreading the day’s challenges.  Today, I’m unusually excited.

                I walk over to the wall on which hangs my calendar.  I drag my finger slowly across to today’s date, December 10^th, although I was already quite positive of the date, and cross it off with a Sharpie.  This day, the day which comes only once a year, is very important to myself.  I’m feeling very happy, in a good mood, and as I get dressed, I select the clothes that make me feel most special.  I first slip my comfortable, long sleeve basketball warm-up shirt over my short, wavy brown hair and stick my arms in the holes of the sleeves.  I then put one leg into my Buckle jeans and put in the other, following that.  Finally, I slide my left foot into one gold Coach shoe and then slide my right foot into the other gold Coach shoe.  I brush my hair, trying to tame the wavy strands.  Then, I put on a touch of make-up, just enough to cover the blemishes that reside on my face.  I look in the full-length mirror, and satisfied, I skip out of my bedroom and hop down the stairs.

                Every year on this particular day, I can smell the sweet taste of cinnamony French toast.  Today, either my nose was not working properly, or there was no sweet smell lingering in the air.  This was strange, as I was used to this smell on this day that comes only once a year.  Suspiciously, I walk into the kitchen and look at the empty kitchen table; just as I suspected: no French toast.

                The house is still.  Quiet—as if somebody had died.  Usually, I can’t walk through my house on this certain day of the year, without one of my eight siblings jumping out at me, giving me big hugs, and wishing me a happy birthday.  I’m starting to wonder why things aren’t going the way they usually go.

                My mom walks in as I’m sitting at the kitchen table, pondering, and she tells me good morning.  I wait for a few seconds, waiting in hopefulness, just waiting in hopefulness for the precious sound of a “happy birthday,” but after a few seconds of this waiting that feels like hours, I reply with a simple, “morning.”

                I walk slowly over to the pantry, and as I’m walking, I mention to my mom that a piece of French toast sounds awfully delicious today.  She responds with just a simple head nod and I see that she’s too engaged in reading her newspaper to probably even have heard what I had said to her.  I continue walking and then open the double doors of the kitchen pantry.  The cereals seem to be staring me right in the face.  My stomach churns, knowing that I will be forced to eat cereal like every other day of the year.  I grab the box of Cocoa Pebbles and groan to myself.  Normally, I’d be running to the cupboard to grab a bowl so that I can pour myself some cereal, since, after all, it is my favorite.  But today, with the way I’m feeling and have been treated so far, eating dirt seems to be equivalent to my Cocoa Pebbles.  But knowing that I will be hungry if I don’t eat something, I grab a bowl, spoon, and a jug of milk and sit down to eat.  The chocolaty smell rises to and through my nose, and I instantly gag.  My brother, Bentley, then walks in and, like my mom, says nothing but a “good morning.”  He doesn’t see, but I roll my eyes at him and place the Cocoa Pebbles right smack in front of him at the table and mutter, “Here.”  I continue on, dragging my feet, as I walk back up the stairs and back into my bedroom.  As I sit back down on my bed, I think aloud, “How could they forget?”