I was loading the last of the living room into boxes when I found it. Tucked behind the couch I'd lifted a hundred times. A small leather diary I didn't remember owning.
I opened it. Three entries. All from the year I turned seventy.
The first one said, 'She picked up the cake from the bakery. Said it was my favorite.' The second one said, 'No one came.' The third one said, 'I put the whole cake in the trash.'
I sat down on the bare floor. The coin jar was on the dresser still, half full of euros and pesos from a trip we'd planned but never booked. The birthday that ended in zero had been three years ago.
I didn't know why I kept that jar. Maybe because the coins still held a shape of something we almost did.
I took the diary to the kitchen table tonight. I wrote a fourth entry.
It said, 'Moved the last box into the truck alone. It weighed nothing. Drove past the bakery on the way out. Bought a slice of cake for myself. Ate it in the empty living room of the new place.'
That's four entries now. I think that's a start.