Not on the Record He turned 89 today, but no one called, making it the forgotten birthday. He was sitting calmly in the dining room corner of the retirement home. There was a platter of still-steaming ravioli in front of him. A cup of black coffee stood next to an unopened glass of water. He was staring at nothing in particular, his eyes red, weary, and wet with emotion. He was eighty-nine years old.
Nobody spoke. No cards, no calls, no balloons. Only the distant clatter of cutlery on plates and the soft murmur of talk around him. The world had continued to revolve. But this day used to mean something to him. On the calendar, it was now just another square. He had three kids.
