Two years ago I turned 23. Birthday on the first of the first month on the last year of a millennium. I always joked that the world counts down and puts on fireworks and resets their calendars and vows to be better and kisses a stranger and gets piss drunk and goes to work hungover the next day, all for me. Its still a good joke. However, the best part of having a birthday on a holiday is being to respond to every ‘happy birthday!’ text with the corresponding ‘thanks! Happy new year!’ To the majority of you who were born on just another calendar day, I don’t know how you bare it. Do you just thank them? You have nothing in return?

I know a guy who doesn’t really celebrate his birthday. Keeps the date a secret. Something about not putting pressure on others, and wanting to be appreciated always and not just on a particular day. Some of that is bullshit. The people around you actually probably want to butter you up once a year if you’d let them. I also know a guy who really counts on his birthday to be made for him. For people to crawl out of the woodworks and shower him. He waits for the surprise party every year. But y’know, since after turning 16, you can’t really expect a Spider-Man costumed stuntman and balloons and all your parent’s friend’s kids to awkwardly run around you back yard. Now, another guy I know is more like the second guy. Loves his birthday, wants it to be special. But he doesn’t wait and twiddle his thumbs and hope his loved ones put asside time of their own lives to make one day special for you. HE makes it special. Plans it out, gets the word out. Knows what he wants to do and who he wants to be there. Gets it done for himself. To everyone’s benefit not just his own. And hey, on the occasion maybe someone buys him dinner. That’s about all that anyone can hope for. Realistically.

Unfortunately lately I have been more like the first guy. Family always proposes dinner, but we go out once a month. The exchange of some birthday cash or gift card is the only thing marking the occasion. No cake, no songs, no mountain of toys. That’s fine. It’s a holiday after all so some excitement is around me whether I brought it about or not. That’s been more or less the trend my passing decade.

However, starting two years ago, a new tradition has emerged. A personal one. Family took me out as usual. We made it back to my grandmother’s house. Doddled and hugged granny goodnight and the uncles and dad and mom and brother made their way to their cars to depart. They all pulled away, headlights throwing shadows through the trees and cacti onto the white painted brick wall before me. Everything old and cracked from the sun. Shutters, purely decorative over the single pane window, full of black widow spider webs, softly swinging in the winter breeze. I sat, alone in my car and pushed the key towards the ignition. And I don’t know why really. Have yet to figure it out. But tears came. Not sobs, not whimpers, not even snot or cries. Just a flood of tears that refused to stop streaming. From the moment I backed out of that secondary driveway and passed under street lamp and traffic lights and turned onto the same old roads I’d been on a thousand times. Past the hospital. And the gas station. And the old cross country running trails. Until I pulled into my home spot and sat for another 10 minutes. I was crying.

I wiped up and let the red eyes fade before heading inside.

Then, for no reason at all that I can tell, the next year I cry all the harder. When my special day is up, no matter the joy and good and family and friends and gifts and texts and wonder of a new year for both the world and myself. When the sun goes down, and its time to head home. The faucet switches on.

This year I did it. In my room on top of my sheets.

Next year I’ll do it. Wherever I am then.

And I don’t know why.