My birthday was to be on the coming Monday.

The days rolled on as they normally did, and I paid no more attention to that Monday than I did to any other. It was to be my twenty third, and the compleannal cheer faded away after the eighteenth. But I acknowledged that it was April, and that was the month it was to be in. Only on that Monday was I reminded completely.

‘Anna!’ shouted Amy, my closest friend, over the phone. ‘Happy birthday!’ she said with such cheer, I could not help but smile. She proceeded to sing me the entirety of the song, and I did not want to interrupt.

‘Thank you,’ I said meekly once she was finished.

‘Drinks today?’

‘Sure,’ I agreed, with a soft smile, and the rest of the day drew on into the evening, where we shared cheerful spirits; of both varieties.

‘So how do you feel now? That you’re one year older,’ she asked me at one point.

I had no more to say, but that I was alright, and that I was happy. She shared my contentment and happiness, and we sipped on the rest of our drinks.

Anna could tell something was encumbering my mood, but she chose not to ask. I think I must have told her not to ask, or maybe she just knew, but I was happy she did not alter the cheer of the scene, and let my birthday pass with the singular joy it deserved. 

We finished our drinks, and our smiles, and I went back home.

***

The following day, there was no more to celebrate. I reminisced the spirit of the night prior, and let out another weak grin, and when the grin passed, the night passed with it. The specialness died. It was simply another day to enjoy.

My phone rang around midday.

‘Anna!’

It was the sweet voice of my mom.

‘Anna!’

And of my dad in the background.

‘Happy birthday!’ they said in tandem.

They apologised for their inability to call the night before, and explained some greater entanglement that kept the wishes delayed by twenty four hours.

‘It’s alright,’ I told them weakly. It really was, and I did not mind.

But my parents wanted to repent, and told me they were coming over that evening. I agreed without argument. I knew they were on their way already, and I was happy to see them so soon.

They came in the evening, as they promised, and I let them into my sitting room, which my mother complimented for its interior design, and my father placed himself within comfortably. I brought out the wine, and poured us each a glass.

We drank the bottle, and talked of the past, then the present, and how we were all doing fine. Of how happy I was, and how little I called. 

I thought I called quite a lot. At least until recently. But I was in no mood to call recently. There was not much to say.

Eventually, our words simmered out, and a place for something grace made its mark on the silence. I opened my mouth, and yawned. My dad had some water, and my parents said they could not stay, that they were on their way to another entanglement, and I told them goodbye, and I wished them goodnight. I told them I loved them, but only to myself. I closed the door, and they were gone.

I put the empty wine bottle into the glass bin, and went to sleep.

***

The following morning, I reminisced my loving parents, and my heart stung. But the sun shined quite nicely that morning, and warmed the sting till it melted the pain into my heart, and my breast felt warm. I made myself a coffee, and went for work.

At the end of that workday, I left to my car. As I stood by its door looking through my purse for the keys, I saw a figure approach for the peripheries of my vision. 

‘Anna,’ said the figure. The silhouette belonged to

‘Martin,’ I answered.

‘It was your birthday on Monday, wasn’t it?’ he asked.

‘It was,’ I said.

An apologetic look darkened his brow.

‘I was out for the start of the week,’ he said glumly. ‘I wanted to wish you on the day, but—I mean, I wasn’t there.’

‘That’s alright,’ I said. Because it really was.

‘And, uhm,’ he continued hesitantly. ‘I was wondering if… maybe—if maybe I could, on account of your birthday, take you out to a sort of birthday dinner?’

A smile started to spread on my lips, then my mind told it to stop, and then, my mind commanded it to return. I looked away from Martin, down to the ground, then back at the silhouette.

‘Sure,’ I told him.

His face illuminated with optimism. In the haste of his glee he asked if that very evening would do for the rendezvous, and I told him it would.

We took his car to a restaurant he knew better than I, and we sat ourselves down. The back of the chair dug into my left shoulderblade.

The evening passed amiably, and his smile when he dropped me back off at my car was joyful, but his initial bliss was gone, and I wondered if that wasn’t just about how things go.

***

On the fourth day of that eventful week, I awoke, I worked, and I returned, and none of the quotidians were interrupted by pleasure. As I walked through the hallway to my apartment, a neighbour happened to occupy the way.

‘Anna,’ the old man said. ‘How are you dear?’

I told him I was fine, and asked how he was. He couldn’t complain.

‘Now dear, forgive me if I’m wrong, but was it not your birthday earlier this week?’ he asked me.

I expressed genuine surprise at his acknowledgement. He had a particular knack for birthdates, he told me.

‘Now, forgive my further intrusions, but I always see you coming home alone. I dearly hope you did not spend your special day in a similar way?’

His voice contained enough compassion that I allowed the intrusion. I let out a weak chuckle, and told him it was quite the contrary: I had been celebrating my birthday for the past three days, for three isolated reasons. He smiled and chuckled too.

‘You’re three years older now then!’ he joked, and I smiled at his joke. But that number—. My smile dissipated.

The old neighbour’s compassion tamed his own humour.

‘But that’s not all, is it?’ he asked sorrowfully.

We looked one another in the eye, and there might have been tears in mine.

‘No. That’s not all.’

And I passed by the old man in the hallway, and walked into my apartment.

I placed myself on my couch, starting sitting, but falling, and falling, and falling onto my side, I lay still like a child in the womb. My tears streaked down to mark a place on the grey covers, then stopped.

Three years.

I felt my body dying.

Three years. 

That’s all I had.

And they passed like days.

And the cancer took me whole.

27.VI.2022