Today, I turned 118.

Yes, you heard me right—one hundred and eighteen years old. Imagine that. I have lived through two world wars, the rise and fall of empires, the birth of the internet, and the quiet hum of a world that has forgotten to slow down.

This morning, I woke up at five. That hasn’t changed since I was a boy on my father’s farm. Some habits, like the scent of freshly baked bread or the sound of birds before sunrise, stay with you no matter how many years pass.

I walked to the kitchen. My legs ached, but they always ache—like old wooden stairs that creak but still hold. I reached for the ingredients: flour, eggs, sugar, a bit of butter, and my secret touch—grated lemon peel, just like my wife used to do.

I decided I would bake my own birthday cake this year.

I used to hate birthdays after I turned ninety. Too many goodbyes, too many empty chairs. But today, I felt something different—a strange, quiet joy. A whisper in my chest telling me, “This might be the last one. Make it count.”

As the cake rose in the oven, I sat by the window and watched the morning come alive. I saw a boy on a bicycle, just like I once was. I remembered the wind in my face, the thrill of not knowing where I was going, and not caring either.

I grew up in a time when letters were written by hand, when a man’s word meant everything, and when love wasn’t just swiping right. I met the love of my life at seventeen. Her name was Eliza. She had eyes that could calm any storm and a laugh that made you believe in spring again.

We were married for 63 years. She passed away twenty-two years ago. Some nights, I still roll over expecting to find her there. I still talk to her when I water her plants. I think she hears me. The flowers bloom better when I do.

The oven dinged. I took the cake out and smiled. It wasn’t perfect—bit lopsided, slightly burnt on the edge—but it was mine. My hands, these old, veined hands, had made it.

I placed a single candle on it. Not 118—Lord knows I wouldn’t finish lighting them all. Just one. One to represent all the years, all the memories, all the love.

And then, I sang.

I sang softly, barely above a whisper: Happy birthday to me…

No one else was there. But I didn’t feel alone. The room was full, in its own way. I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder, my father’s quiet pride, my children’s giggles, my grandchildren’s hugs, and Eliza’s love wrapping around me like an old, warm blanket.

I thought about regrets. I don’t have many. I worked hard, I loved deeply, I said sorry when I was wrong, and thank you when I was right. I held babies and buried friends. I saw stars in the desert and snow on Christmas Eve. I lived.

And if this is my last birthday, then I want to leave something behind.

So, here it is.

Life is not the number of breaths you take. It’s the number of moments that take your breath away.

Don’t wait to be old to cherish the ordinary. Hug more. Forgive faster. Laugh even when it hurts. And never, ever forget to bake yourself a cake on your birthday. You’re worth it.

With love,
George W. Alton, Age 118