Old Mr. Thurmond’s nose wrinkled up irritably as he entered the dining-room. Mrs. Haden was wearing her best lace collar and a fluttery smile, and there was a bunch of flowers on the table—things she did on special occasions. He’d sworn never to let that meddling woman know how old he was. He glared at his fellow-boarders as he slid into his chair—who’d found out and told her?

“Ladies and gentleman,” said Mrs. Haden, “tonight we celebrate the birthday of a venerable institution”—Mr. Thurmond glared more—“at all of five years old! To the Elm Street Rooming-House!”

She crept quietly from bed and to the doorway, certain she must still be asleep and dreaming. Gazing out of doors, her sleepy eyes met the sight of the far-off pasture shining with light, and her ears filled with triumphant singing. Tiny figures in the distance were clustered together gazing upwards. Above them, the night sky was more astonishing than any dream, for radiant angels hailed the shepherds with songs. She stood transfixed, watching the scene unfolding before her. It all looked like a joyful celebration, she thought--maybe the kind of celebration a king would have for his birthday.

“Happy birthday,” she says, her head bent earthward, her hair windblown. “I wanted to talk to you.” She pauses. “To tell you just this once... I love you.”

Her mouth softens, bending upward. White teeth. Red lips. Sad smile. “Because today of all days you can't stop me. You have to let me say it and please tell me you're listening: I love you.”

She reaches out. The skin of her fingers meet the stone of a grave, tracing the tiny chasms marking a name and a life now gone. “I love you. And I miss you. And happy birthday.”