The day came and went, as do all days.
The sun rose.
The coffee brewed.
Outside, birds sang in the trees.
The city woke from slumber
as I drank my morning coffee.
Sixty-four years after
the world held its breath,
not in anticipation of my birth
but hoping missiles would stay silent
in their tombs,
somewhere on the banks of the Susquehanna
a boy was born,
pronounced healthy,
and sent home with his parents.
And birds sang.
And coffee brewed.
Outside, birds sang in the trees.
And the city woke from its slumber.
But today,
nothing happened.
No missiles on distant shores.
No blockade.
No backroom deals.
No birthday cards.
No presents to unwrap.
No cake to eat.
And to and fro,
from branch to branch,
the squirrels jump,
ignorant of the fact
that watching them
is how I spent my birthday.
They chase one another
along the fence,
stop,
listen,
then disappear into the trees.
The afternoon comes.
The afternoon goes.
Somewhere a phone rings.
Someone opens a door.
Someone lights candles
and carries a cake into a room.
Here,
the coffee grows cold.
The light moves across the floor.
Evening gathers itself
against the windows.
And I think of that boy
sent home sixty-four years ago
into a world that had nearly ended,
who knew nothing
of missiles
or presidents
or the terrible arithmetic
of being loved.
He simply arrived.
That was all.
He arrived.
And yesterday,
I waited
for some small acknowledgement
that he had.
