My grandmother was born on May 9, 1946. She turned eighty on Saturday, May 9, 2026, sixty-one days after my cousin's twenty-eighth birthday and twelve days before mine.
The 包间 was on the second floor of the Ma Xiangxing, on Yunnan Road: a closed room, a round table three meters across, a turning tray in the middle, a door the waitresses push open with an elbow. Twenty-four seats at 380 yuan, booked on November 15 for May 9, paid for by my aunt.
The seating plan was my aunt's. My grandmother facing the door. On her right, my aunt; on my aunt's right, my cousin; seat 3 left empty until 12:10 p.m. My mother: seat 14, her back to the service door, as at table 31 on October 3, 2021. Me: seat 17, between the daughter of one of my grandfather's cousins and an empty chair.
There were twenty-three of us for twenty-four seats; an uncle from Yangzhou had cried off the day before.