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Parting Party Celebration Samantha Sinensky
She carried a large rectangular cake. Its inside was heavily filled with custard, making the whole dessert sag downward. Slices of canned peaches were laid on the top, slowly sinking into the frosting. The old man never used to like canned peaches, but after spending time in the hospital, he started to enjoy their artificial sweetness and fleshy texture. The bed, too, that once felt stiff, was now acceptable to his body. His birthday, which he knew would be commemorating his final year on earth, was celebrated by those who knew him best: the 4th-floor nurses. Even the doctor promised he would pop in for a toast. His medical team knew his blood type, preferred dessert, and what time he would wake up in the middle of the night, startled and sweating from a nightmare. Any remaining relatives (of which there were few) were represented by a large vase suffocated under purple tulips. Beside it rested a small envelope with the illegible words “sorry we couldn’t make it” scribbled haphazardly. They hadn’t cared to wait long enough for the ink to dry. The tulips were lovely and robust, with thick bamboo-like stems. They made up for any lost company. He smiled at the nurses and cake that surrounded him. This was the ideal setting for his final days.
