By Shannon Herbert 

When I lived back East, the chill September air brought out the conspirators. It wasn’t cold yet, not at all, but for the first time of the year it was clear that cold would come again. It was comforting, but shocking too, the reminder of winter, the back-to-school routine that always meant so much change. In that first early dusk, that first sharp breeze smelling of leaves crushed underfoot and new classrooms, there they were. An entire year had passed when I hadn’t thought about them and their furtive planning.

The conspirators’ calling card is silence or pointed avoidance. I can hear everything in what they are not saying. And then someone will ask casually what I want to do for my birthday.

They always choose carefully. It has to be someone I’d expect it from, someone who can play it cool. And they have to have somebody ask, or I would feel totally forgotten. The surprise would be more effective, but melancholy. It would come too late. Someone has to play the decoy, suggest that we do dinner or drinks, something celebratory but unspecial. 

At this point, I always sense a family member’s hand in the planning, and it warms me, the thought of my friends reaching out to them, or my mother coordinating a surprise visit. I wondered who would pick her up from the airport, where she would stay before the reveal. How wonderful it must be for all of them to be part of such a blessed brotherhood. 

Once I detect the planning, I am perpetually on guard. To surprise me they have to plan it for when I least expect it, which could be any time in the month of September before the actual date. Or the date itself. Or any day after that. It’s my favorite vigilance. 

I start to wonder how they will do it: wait at the house while I’m picking up the boys, or at a friend’s house where I’d been invited to a simple dinner, or at the unspecial dinner or drinks. Will they all jump out there. 

The anticipation charges everything. Mundane conversations about groceries radiate with hidden signs about the menu, the number of guests. Idle talk is riddled with hints and suggestions. I search beneath the veil. I break the code. 

It gets to where I can’t walk to anyone’s doorway anymore without feeling like I’m going to pee my pants. It’s impossible not to smile as I ring the bell, or knock my familiar knock. But I know I have to, so that when the door opens and they all jump out, my dear ones, my friends, they can delight in my surprise, how genuine, how filled with delight. As the knob turns, I fight the rise at the corner of my mouth, almost like a tic. I can’t smile. Not yet.