Today’s my 97th birthday. I woke up with no candles, no cards, no phone calls.
I live in a small room above a closed-down hardware store. The landlord doesn’t charge me much, mostly because I fixed his plumbing last winter. Not much in here besides a creaky bed, a kettle, and my chair by the window. That window’s my favorite—it lets me watch the buses go by.
I walked to the bakery two blocks down. The girl behind the counter smiled like she didn’t recognize me, even though I come in every week for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a cue card.
I bought a small cake. Vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. Felt silly asking for it, but I did.
Back in my room, I set it on the crate I use as a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down, and waited.
I don’t know why I expected anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife talked down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He hung up, and that was that. No calls, no visits. I don’t even know where he lives now.
I cut myself a slice. The cake was good. Sweet, soft, fresh.
I took a photo of it with my old flip phone. Sent it to the number I still had saved under “Eliot.” Just wrote: Happy birthday to me.
