For thirty years, I hated my birthday. It was the day my first love died. Or so I believed. Then a young woman who looked exactly like Lily walked into my yard holding a video, and within seconds, the life I’d spent decades grieving began to unravel.
I turned 47 last week, and for thirty years, I’ve kept myself busy on my birthday.
Mowing the lawn at six in the morning. Cleaning the gutters. Organizing the garage into a system that nobody but me would understand.
Anything with a motor, or a task list, or enough noise to fill a head that would otherwise go somewhere I don’t want it to go.
