And so the party was planned: everyone had to wear black, show up at 8, bring vodka and look sexy.
After some music and enjoying some of my cooking we would then move on to a sweet little lounge called bird.
I made invitations, forgot to give out most of them, and made some last minute phone calls to invite people. But they showed, armed with vodka, and dressed like the sexiest funeral goers you've ever seen.
My brother even flew in from Vancouver, and met me with a smile before the party in his leather jacket, the best birthday gift I could have dreamt of.
It started slowly, with the brie baking in the oven, I started mixing cocktails, and eventually the room filled itself. Beautiful faces all around, my cousins grinning in high heels, people getting to know each other on the sofas, spoons digging into my pesto spinach couscous and giant salad.
I darted back and forth, accepted personal gifts, and felt nothing but content. I only stopped when my roomate lit a big piece of baklavah, my favourite dessert, and the room sang to me while I blushed red balloons.
It was a good assortment of people. Family, old friends, new friends, school friends, and budding friendships.
I accepted a small silver flask from a young woman I met in Paris, and felt happy about where my life is taking me.
When we went to bird, a lounge that whispered to me everytime I passed, the waiter brought a tray of small citrus cocktails, a gift because it was my birthday.
It was intimate, stylish and comfortable. A chandelier dropped from the ceiling of lightbulbs with wings attached to them. They fell like angels, their presence strong in the simple space.
I like making things happen. The night happened, as I dreamed, and lit my life up again.
If lights can have wings, there's hope for me yet.
My whole life I've felt like I was free falling, but I'm learning to fly.