Interests, Likes, Wants & Desires

Today,

the world insists

I should celebrate.

There is cake.

There are candles.

There are voices

that tell me

they’re glad I was born.

So am I.

More than they know.

Fifty-three.

There was a time

when birthdays

were little more

than punctuation marks.

Another year.

Another joke

about getting older.

Another handful of candles

blown out

without much thought

for whether

there would be

more to follow.

Now,

every candle

feels like borrowed light.

People ask me

what I want

for my birthday.

They expect

something tangible.

Instead,

I find myself wishing

for the one thing

no one can wrap.

Just…

one…

more.

Not because

I’m afraid to die.

But because

I’ve finally learned

how beautiful

ordinary days

really are.

A sunrise.

A long conversation.

Coffee

that grows cold

because the company

is too good

to interrupt.

The first cool morning

after a relentless summer.

The laughter

that sneaks up on you

when you least expect it.

The quiet comfort

of hearing someone

on the other end

of the line.

The universe

has peculiar timing.

It waited

until this chapter

of my life

to send people

I now struggle

to imagine

having lived without.

Sometimes,

“I love you”

sounds suspiciously

like olive juice.

Some smiles

travel twelve hundred miles

without ever boarding

an airplane.

Some stories

about a nurse anesthetist

who was an absolute knockout

are funny

for more than one reason.

Some conversations

begin with music,

wander through life,

and somehow leave you

laughing harder

than you were

when they began.

Some people

never ask you

to pretend

that everything

is okay.

They simply stay.

Even when

the conversation

becomes difficult.

Even when

there are no words

capable

of fixing anything.

Kindness,

I’ve learned,

doesn’t care

whether it crosses

a street,

a border,

or an ocean.

It simply arrives.

I wish

I had found

all of these souls

years earlier.

Then again…

perhaps

they arrived

at the exact moment

I needed

to recognize

the miracle

of finding them.

I don’t question

the universe

anymore.

I just thank it.

If I have anything left

to offer this life,

I want to spend it

on people.

On conversations

that refuse

to end.

On laughter

that leaves

my ribs aching.

On reminding someone,

for no particular reason,

that they matter.

That they always will.

Because one day,

there will be

a birthday

without candles.

Without wishes.

Without me.

But today

isn’t that day.

Today,

I still get

to love.

I still get

to be loved.

I still get

to marvel

at the impossible fortune

of the paths

that crossed mine,

however late

they may have arrived.

So tonight,

when the room

falls quiet

and the last candle

finally surrenders

its tiny flame,

I won’t ask

for riches.

I won’t ask

for certainty.

I won’t even ask

for miracles.

I’ll ask

for mornings.

For ordinary Tuesdays.

For one more autumn.

One more snowfall.

One more chance

to hear familiar voices.

One more opportunity

to say,

without rushing,

“I love you.”

And if the universe

chooses

to grant me

one more birthday,

I promise

I will spend

every ordinary day

between now

and then

earning it.

Because somewhere

along these fifty-three years,

without my even noticing,

life stopped being

about counting birthdays

and became

about counting

the hearts

that made each one

Moka Pot , Morning - Duane Keiser , 2025