The last time I had a conversation with my grandfather, Terrell, was on my birthday, July 9, 2025. Funny enough, we both have the same birthday, so we have this tradition where we always call each other. I remember him singing a particular “Happy Birthday” song that most Southern people know. It sounded like sugar, spice, and everything nice with his husky, smoky voice. After the southern charm, he sends me a message about a birthday cake he created; he’s somewhat of a baker. The cake is covered with a thick coating of sweet vanilla frosting and those rainbow sprinkles that are in a circular shape, not cylinder ones. On top of the cake is a red jam-like frosting used for written letters. Written on top are the words, “Happy Birthday” in cursive.

It shimmered and glowed as it contrasted with the pale white frosting and colorful beads of crunch. I wished him a Happy Birthday as well, and as I was giving the phone back to my mother, he burst out saying, “Hey, when are you coming down?” It sounded like a threat with his dark and deep voice. I tried to change the subject to the beautiful cake he baked or get his attention on one of my 3 brothers, but nope. He stayed persistent the whole time. I gave him half-promises, saying we’ll totally be visiting Man, West Virginia, knowing that we won’t. I gave him a guilty but hopeful face before rushing the phone to my mother and wishing him a final Happy Birthday with a defeated look on my face.