07/01/2025
Today, I turned 97. No cards in the mail. No phone ringing. Just another quiet morning in the little room I rent above an old hardware shop that’s been closed for years. The landlord lets me stay cheap since I fixed his busted pipes last winter. The place is simple—bed, kettle, one window looking out at the street. That window’s my favorite part. I sit there and watch buses pass like time itself. I walked down the block to the bakery. The girl behind the counter smiled politely, not recognizing me, though I’m in there most weeks for day-old rolls. I told her it was my birthday. She said, “Oh, happy birthday,” with the same voice people use when they say “Bless you” to strangers. I bought a little vanilla cake with strawberries. Asked them to write: “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” Felt a bit foolish asking, but I did it anyway. Back in my room, I set the cake down on my old crate-table. Lit a single candle. Sat. Waited. I don’t know what I thought might happen. My son, Eliot, hasn’t spoken to me in years. Last time we talked, I said something careless about his wife. He hung up, and that was the end of it. No birthday calls since. No address to send a card to. Just silence. I ate a slice. It was good—light and sweet. Then I took a picture of the cake with my old flip phone. Sent it to his number. Just wrote: \"Happy birthday to me.\" And then I waited. Just stared at the screen, hoping for three little dots. (check in the first comment👇)