The Gift of 85 Years

The alarm clock rang. 7 AM.

It’s my birthday.

I walked slowly over to the bathroom in my blue striped pajamas. My glasses were still sticking out of my pants pocket. I grabbed them and slid them onto my face.

“Ah.” I smiled. “Another year older.”

In the mirror, I watched myself carefully shave the last patch of hair on my chin.

“Ouch.” A small sting. Blood trickled down.

The towel was already sitting on the sink. I pressed it against my face. It wasn’t the first time, and most certainly won't be the last.

I glanced at the toilet and laughed. My wife used to remind me every single morning: “Put the seat down!” Still, out of habit or maybe memory I lowered the seat and sprayed the same familiar scent she liked.

I collect myself and gather my thoughts.

Eggs for Breakfast? No.

Cake. Of course.

Cake for breakfast. It’s my birthday.

The grandkids arrived. They're here?

I scurried downstairs to let them in.

As we approached the kitchen, all the ingredients were laid out on the countertop. I had placed them there the night before. Time to get the whisk. The grandkids helped, too. Their hands are eager and full of energy.

As we got to work, I drifted into memories of my younger days.

“You can’t forget the vanilla extract.”

“Remember it’s Buttermilk if you want to make it moist.”

“Where’s the recipe book?”

The voices began to overlap. My hand started to tremble.

The whisk dropped. The grandkids picked it up for me.

I looked at the electric mixer. I guess that's what the younger generation uses these days. It just didn’t feel natural. But I'll use it.

The cake finally slid into the oven.

Still some time to get ready for the party. I glanced over at the old wicker cabinet.

I reached for the box of homemade VHS tapes. That’s what us old people do, right?

The tapes were all labeled by year, and the grandkids and I would watch the tapes together.

1985.

The screen flickered.

“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!”

I laughed. I still had that old watch my sister gave me. Strange. I didn’t have striped pajamas.

1990.

I blew out the candles.

The family looked older now.

There it is. That same whisk I dropped earlier.

And finally, the blue striped pajamas made an appearance.

“Happy Birthday to you!”

Wait… is that my sister Jane in the corner? She’s got a few more wrinkles now.

1994.

“Happy Birthday to you…”

But where’s my brother Johnny?

Oh. Right. He was in the hospital that year. I sent him a card.

Still, it felt warm seeing my wife and kids. They looked older. Wiser.

Now they had kids of their own.

Hope. She was always clumsy. There’s cake all over the table.

She dropped it. I was supposed to get the first slice.

Tape after tape, the memories came flooding back. Each one a year. Each one piece of me. Until I reached the last tape.

But this one was different. There was no “Happy Birthday”. Where was I?

Just them. The people in my life. Some who had passed. Others who were simply…gone.

And in that quiet moment, I understood the tapes weren’t just about me.

They were about them.

The people who shaped me. The people who gave me meaning.

Even this morning – the glasses, the towel, the whisk, the scent

Each one tied to someone. A memory. A gift.

The oven beeps. It was sharp and familiar. I pulled the cake out and placed it gently on the table. The scent filled the room, warm and sweet, the way it always used to be.

I took my usual seat. The one where I blew candles year after year, laughter in the air, voices overlapping, and plates clinking.

The grandkids peered into the kitchen as I drifted into a warm, nostalgic haze.

Suddenly, my wife and siblings shared the same space just like the worn VHS tapes we used to record.

I reached for the old camera, pointing it at the cake with empty chairs and the illusion of my wife, brother, and sister around the table.

Recording.

To my right, I glanced at the space beside me, the one where Hope always sat. I imagined her smile, that mischievous spark in her eyes.

“You can have the first slice.” I said, smiling softly. “But this time… don’t drop it, alright?”

Then I turned to my left. Jane would always sit there, polished as ever, with her careful wrapping and thoughtful gifts.

“I always liked the watches you gave me.” I whispered, touching the chair’s edge. “They still all work, you know.”

I looked straight ahead towards the lens. The camera blinked, steady and still, capturing it all.

“Johnny! Get back here. You are alive and well to me.” I said, louder this time. My voice cracked but I smiled through it.

A tear slipped down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.

Then, I closed my eyes for a second. Hope again. Always Hope.

“I always loved you the most.” I said, barely above a whisper. “You’re my wife. The truth is… I ate some of that cake you dropped. That’s why I didn’t want you to throw it away. You were my favorite piece.”

I exhaled and picked up the knife. I cut the cake slowly, carefully. There were still candles on the cake this year. My name on top. There were a variety of pictures and decorations.

But somehow… Everyone still got a slice.

I wasn’t alone. Not this time.

As the room settled into a soft silence, I remembered Johnny’s cards. He always wrote something meaningful. Something simple that stayed with you.

Still not fully present, I leaned over and opened the kitchen drawer. I shuffled through my kept letters and found his last one. Plain cover. Blank front. His handwriting inside. It's been a long time.

I opened it and read it aloud:

“I don’t have enough words to tell you how I feel. I can’t believe this is the last card. Please tell everyone that I love them. I love you more than this card could ever say. Happy Birthday.”

I closed it slowly, holding it to my chest.

And just like that, I was back to reality.

I stood up and reached over to shut off the camera, the screen going dark with a soft click.

Recording End.

As my grandchildren walked in, they pulled me into a tender, loving hug.

On this 85th birthday, I'm reminded:

Though times move on and some are no longer here with us, love remains.

And for me, that love lives on in my grandchildren, right here beside me.