24/06/2025
Today, I turned 97. No birthday cards in the mailbox. No phone calls. Just another quiet morning in the small room I rent above an old, long-shuttered hardware store. The landlord keeps the rent lowâprobably because I fixed his plumbing last winter. The roomâs nothing fancy: a bed, a kettle, and a window overlooking the street. That windowâs my favorite. I sit there and watch the buses roll by like time slowly slipping past. I walked down the street to the bakery. The young woman at the counter gave me a polite smile, didnât recognize me, though I stop in nearly every week for discounted bread. I mentioned it was my birthday. She said, âOh, happy birthday,â in the same way people say âGod blessâ when someone sneezes. I picked out a small vanilla cake topped with strawberries. Asked them to write: âHappy 97th, Mr. L.â Felt a little silly saying it out loud, but I went through with it. Back in my room, I placed the cake on the old crate I use for a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down. Waited. Iâm not sure what I was expecting. My son, Eliot, hasnât called in years. Our last conversation ended badlyâme saying something I shouldnât have about his wife. He hung up, and that was it. No more calls. No forwarding address. Just silence. I cut a slice. It tasted goodâlight, sweet, fresh. Then I took a picture with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number still saved under his name. Typed: âHappy birthday to me.â And then I stared at the screen, waiting⊠hoping those three little dots might show up. (check in the first commentđ)