Today is my birthday.
I know because someone placed a small sign around my neck. It says no one has wished me a happy birthday because I am blind.
I cannot read the words, but I can feel the cardboard resting against my chest. I can hear people walking nearby, children laughing in the distance, and dogs running across the grass.
Sometimes footsteps slow beside me.
I lift my head and turn toward the sound, hoping a hand will reach down and touch me.
But most footsteps continue past.
I was not always blind. I still remember sunlight, moving shadows, and the face of someone I once trusted. Then my world slowly faded until everything became darkness.
Now I recognize people by their voices, their scent, and the way the ground moves beneath their feet. When someone approaches quietly, I do not know whether they are smiling at me or looking away because of my cloudy eyes.
So I wait.
I try to sit straight.
I keep my ears raised.
I wag my tail whenever someone comes close, because perhaps this time they will stop.
I do not need to see candles.
I do not need colorful balloons or a beautiful cake.
I only want to hear one gentle voice say:
“Happy birthday. I see you.”
Maybe you cannot change my whole life today.
Maybe you cannot take me home or return the sight I have lost.
But you can remind me that darkness has not made me invisible.
Today is my birthday.
Please, before you walk away, will you wish me a happy birthday?
