Three Little Celebrations

 Birthdays make us tender—

draw out a hush in the heart.

This time, those I hoped would remember

did not forget.

The near ones said it face-to-face,

the far ones—through phone,

and Facebook windows.

But the one I longed to hear from

in the pale blush of morning—

my wife—

only asked at day’s fading light,

“So many calls today—

what’s going on?”

I was in my daughter’s home then,

six months into my stay.

Here in Australia—

and everywhere two working hands

hold a household—

birthdays, even national days,

wait for weekends.

The plan was set:

a Saturday dinner in a restaurant.

Yet my birthday came alive

in three small, perfect moments.

First—

returning from my morning walk,

the sound of my steps

pulled my five-year-old grandson

from his bath.

He ran, bare as laughter,

to open the door—

and said, breathless,

Happy Birthday, Nanu.

Later, from school,

he told me,

“Four of my friends had a birthday today.”

I corrected him—

“Not four, three—

I saw their names on the notice board.”

He looked at me,

eyes round as the truth—

“You’re not counting yourself!”

It took him three hours

to tame his longing—

but that evening,

as I watered the plants out back,

he whispered in my ear again,

Happy Birthday—

and slipped the school chocolate bar

into my pocket

like a secret gift.

And that was the song of the day.

Not loud,

but perfect.

 

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