Not Another Birthday

It was the day of my birthday when a small black box landed on my doorstep. As the drone zoomed off in a rush for another delivery, I took a closer look at it. It was devoid of bells and whistles and at a first glance, it merely looked like an empty shoebox.

In recent years, I had requested that my birthday be ignored by all those who knew me. As time passed, the day I was born became less of a celebration and more of an ominous reminder of my mortality. So the moment the small box arrived, it stirred up feelings of resentment I had towards the ticking clock. Everyone was to let my 78th birthday come and go like every other day of the year. But today, someone had decided otherwise, and whoever they were, they were going to hear from me.

Slowly bending over to pick up the box, I brought it closer to my face while adjusting my reading glasses to better examine it. The box was light and as I hesitantly shook it to my ear, nothing moved on the inside. Was this just a bad joke to spite me on the worst of days? As I walked back into the living room, I frowned at the box in my hand. Dropping it on the table, I drew myself a seat and sat down with a thud. Picking up the newspaper I had previously discarded, I was intent on forgetting the box and pursuing the article on the supervirus decimating our aging population. As I skimmed through the article, it was at the end of each sentence that the little black box caught my eye again. My curiosity was slowly wearing away at my frustration. As I read the article, between the dramatic graphs and depressing testimonials, my thoughts persistently came back to the unassuming box. Come on Roger, open it. You’ll find out who it came from and you can give them a piece of your mind. Don’t people have better things to do than this? I fumed.

As I puffed in anger, I noticed my hands had scrunched the paper, my fingers ripping through the article I was reading. Throwing it back onto the table, I reached over for the box and picked it up again. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get on with my worthless day if I didn't open the box.

It was reluctantly that I retrieved the box cutter from the kitchen drawer. Sluggishly making it back to the living room table, I released a deep sigh. I’m too old for this, I thought. Placing the box cutter back on the table after slicing the top of the box, I slowly opened the flaps. As I peered inside, it only contained a small piece of weathered paper with a yellow post-it note stuck to it. Reaching inside, I pulled the contents out. The post-it read:

Dear Mr. Buckley,

In honour of our school’s 100th anniversary, Feathering Elementary school has opened our 70 year old time capsule this morning. The small note enclosed was part of that capsule. We have the pleasure to return to you a letter you had written all those years ago. It’s a good day to remember that our inner child is never far away.

Wishing you a wonderful birthday Mr. Buckley.

Principle Anna Ridgeway

I frown as I finish reading the post-it. I don’t remember writing anything for a time capsule. I know it was a rather common thing schools did, but my memory really doesn’t go back that far. If it was 70 years ago, I was just 8 years old. A young boy with his whole life in front of him. Even if I didn't want anything to do with this, curiosity drives me to take a look at the note. The writing is sloppy and slanted as if it were about to fall off the paper. After readjusting my glasses, I begin reading the message.

If you are reading this then wow, you are still alive. Well done! You must be a grumpy old man, old people really suck. But right now, I am super happy! Today is my birthday and I get to put this in a time capsule (so cool) and who knows, maybe aliens will read this first! AND after this, I will go bowling with Jon for the very first time in my life!!! I know you are probably planning to nap or yell at someone, but if you read this, promise me you’ll go bowling. Happy birthday old man!

I stay still for a moment. I'm stunned. Not only do I not remember writing this, I can’t even remember when was the last time I went bowling. I do remember how much I used to enjoy it as a child. Why did I ever stop? This 8 year old boy seems so foreign to me. His enthusiasm and his excessive use of exclamation marks makes the excitement palpable in his short note. He would hate what I have become. I have become the definition of what he considers an “old man”. Disappointment washes over me. Getting up from my seat, I go get the phone I left charging by the kitchen. I unlock it, intent on making a call. As I hear the first ringtone, she answers.

“Hello grandaddy, how are you? Are you ok?”

“Good afternoon Susie, I had a question for you …I was just wondering if you would like to go bowling with me?”

“Oh … yes of course! Give me an hour and I’ll come and pick you up. I really thought you wouldn’t want to do anything today. I’m really happy you changed your mind.”

“Yes me too, see you soon Susie”

“Grandaddy?...”

“Yes?”

“... I just wanted to say... Happy Birthday.”

I smile as we hang up. Glancing back at the box and the note lying on the table I whisper: Thanks kiddo.

***

Today is a good day to remember that our inner child is never far away.