Birthdays arrive without knocking,
a quiet calendar mark that widens into a room.
Time folds its chairs in a circle,
and presence takes many forms,
some visible, some learned by absence.
Voices gather the way light does at dusk,
not loud, not pleading to be noticed.
Certain silences know my name better than sound,
they stand close, steady,
asking for nothing, offering weight.
Those who remain bring warmth in ordinary gestures,
a glance held longer than required,
laughter that understands its own restraint.
Their nearness is not an announcement,
it is continuity breathing beside me.
Others arrive without footsteps,
yet the air adjusts when they do.
Memory sharpens, not to wound,
but to remind me where I was once shaped,
and why certain days feel deeper than dates.
This day becomes less a celebration,
more a convergence of paths intersecting.
Past and present refuse to stay apart,
they speak through me, briefly aligned,
before returning to their distances.
So I stand at the center, not counting years,
but acknowledging the gathering itself.
What endures is not the candle’s flame,
but the shared moment of recognition,
that I am made of many arrivals
