Small

My coworker had a birthday.

They brought in a cake today.

Everyone sang.

The office rang

with a song we all pretended

we knew. It was ended

by clapping.

I watched them smile

while everyone was watching.

I watched the while

they performed, and I was catching

something they weren't:

that this wasn't what they wanted.

Or maybe it was. I can't tell.

Everyone wants to be celebrated.

But I was thinking of mine.

The best birthday I had

was in a diner. Just sad

lighting and coffee. One person

across the table. The lesson

was simple: they showed up.

That's all. We drank our cup

of coffee. We didn't sing.

No cake. No ring

of people. No performance.

Just me and someone who knew

that the best gift was showing up, too.

That presence was enough.

That small was the real stuff.

That's the birthday I remember.

Not the big celebrations of December.

Not the party. Not the cake.

Just the small thing at stake:

that one person cared

enough to show up and be there.

My coworker smiled while they sang.

And I'm sure it was real. But the hang

of it stayed with me. I remembered

my small birthday, my one person,

the specific ache of knowing

that the real ones

are always small.