April 29th begins with the quiet truth
that life is a lurker.
It hides behind doors,
peeks through curtains,
waits in the corners
where the light forgets to reach.
It watches you
with the patience
of something that knows
you’ll eventually turn around.
And then,
as if the day needed
a punchline,
your neighbour‑zombie
is having his 29th birthday party
of the month.
Not the year.
The month.
Twenty‑nine celebrations
for a life that refuses
to stay still,
refuses to stay finished,
refuses to follow
the polite rules
of calendars.
He stands there,
half‑alive,
half‑elsewhere,
holding a paper hat
that keeps sliding off
his slightly confused head.
Should you send him
a kiss
or a glass of vodka?
A kiss would evaporate
before reaching him,
lost in the strange air
between the living
and the almost‑living.
A glass of vodka, though,
that might survive the journey.
It might even make him smile,
or whatever the undead version
of a smile is.
April 29th is a day
that understands absurdity,
that embraces the impossible,
that lets you stand on the balcony
and toast a neighbour
who shouldn’t exist
but somehow does.
Life lurks.
Birthdays multiply.
And you,
caught between affection
and bewilderment,
offer a gesture
that means:
I see you.
Even in your strangeness.
Even in your persistence.
Even on your 29th birthday
of the month.
April 29th ends
with a soft, uncanny warmth,
the kind that comes
from acknowledging
the odd companions
life gives you.
