By Alexis Rae

How will birthdays look 50 years from now, and what kind of attention, love, or joy will I still be surrounded by?


It’s the middle of spring in a retirement community. Three ladies enter a room with the guidance of a younger teen boy. The clashing of pearls and the skids of walkers fill the room. Their bright cardigans and layered scarves contrast with one another. In their hands are lotería cards and bags of pinto beans. They take a seat at the playing table and thank the young man for everything he does.

He smiles and says, “You let me know if you ladies need anything else, okay? I’ll be right back.”

It is my first time volunteering at a retirement center. I am scrambling to complete the volunteer hours I need to graduate. Friends describe the center as laid-back, and it lives up to

that reputation. The small community spends its after-dinner hours in the lounge, a warm space filled with the soft hum of conversation and the faint smell of coffee. Some residents gather at a table, writing in journals while the daily news plays on a nearby TV. Others shuffle disks across a corner shuffleboard, their movements slow but deliberate. At another table, an elderly couple leans over a crossword puzzle, heads close together, absorbed in the quiet challenge.

Words and chatter float through the room. I find myself drifting in and out of conversations; most of it is mumbles, yet somehow everyone understands one another. I begin to interpret the murmurs as a kind of universal language in this space.

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There’s a certain feeling I get when I’m surrounded by elderly people, a mix of comfort and familiarity — a sense that I can relate to them even though I haven’t lived long enough to truly understand their experiences. I admire their outlook on life, their encouragement, and their words of wisdom.

I took pride in knowing I could chime in during morning chats and that my thoughts were valued. I knew they saw me as a fresh perspective, someone with decades of living ahead.

I enjoyed the pungent smell of my grandmother’s perfume and the warm feeling of her wrinkled hand holding my own. I would sit beside my grandfather with fake glasses and a crossword puzzle in hand, competing with him to see who could finish first. The anticipation of Friday mornings these days never feels as strong as it did back then.


I rifled through my grandmother’s wardrobe, trying on her soft, worn sweaters and playful hats, imagining myself many years from now — visibly lined with age but still vibrant. My grandmother looked remarkable at 76, her feathered hair perfectly styled, and she often offered me little pieces of jewelry during my visits. She carried a quiet, comforting confidence I hoped to have when I reached her age. I wanted to grow old with that same sense of style and ease, someone my future grandchildren could look at and think, She’s still got it.

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My attention shifts to the three ladies as they start their match of bingo, Al Green playing softly in the background. Marianna, wearing a yellow cardigan, calls out each card for her friends.

“La Sandía… La Mano… La Dama," She reads.

Lupe, in a red cardigan, stamps her cards while nudging Olga to let her know she missed a number. The game continues for six minutes until Olga calls the win.

The young man comes back to check on the ladies, sneaking up behind Lupe with a heart-shaped cake and candles.

“I heard it’s my favorite lady’s birthday today,” he says.

He places the cake on the table, and the ladies laugh and marvel in amusement. The cake is decorated with glitter and pearl beads, reading, “Happy 79th Birthday Lupe!”

Everyone in the room joins in singing “Happy Birthday.” It’s a quiet but mighty group of elderly citizens coming together for her. Some show no expression yet sing along; others smile ear to ear, moving their hands to the words.

Lupe pauses to take it all in. Her face creases with happiness as she looks at the cake and her friends. She scans the room, taking in each person, as if measuring the weight of this moment. This is her community, and I imagine all the moments that led her here. Perhaps she spent her life with her lover by her side, or a loyal pet that never left her.  Maybe I have it all wrong, and her days were marked by struggle. Her eyes find mine, and she holds my gaze, smiling with quiet warmth.

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When I was eight years old, there was no ounce of fear in my soul about growing old. If growing old meant I would smell rich and tell stories all day, I couldn’t wait for the gray hairs to grow in. I never imagined the quiet aches or the empty chairs, only the idea that growing old equaled a life well spent.

At the age of twelve, maturity began to settle in. I viewed aging as a gentle ghost that followed behind me, whispering softly that it wasn’t here to take me just yet. In the back of my mind, I pictured a ticking time bomb — a symbol of the uncertainty about whether I would ever truly grow old. Would my time expire in the next two hours, when I least expected it, or while I was sound asleep?

I wondered if I would ever live to hear the laughter of my future children or visit all the places I once dreamed about with someone I loved. I wondered if I would look in the mirror one day and see the proof of a full life etched across my face: the creases from laughter, the sun’s warmth imprinted on my skin. I thought about the small bunny tattoo on my left arm and how it might look on wrinkled skin. Would anyone even notice it was a bunny? Either way, it marked a moment in time I chose to carry with me for the rest of my life.

Aging was a romanticization to keep my mind off the thought of a sudden death. I wrapped the word in soft colors and warm images — birthdays, stories, the perfume of grandmothers. I tweaked the meaning to make it feel less like an ending and more like a promise.

I can’t pinpoint exactly why celebrating Lupe’s 79th birthday meant so much to me. Maybe it was the way the other residents and staff visibly loved her, or maybe it was the sight of her fashionable circle of friends that I envisioned in my distant future.

I look back on all my previous birthday celebrations and realize they weren’t about how old I was getting, but about the impact of my existence and what I meant to the people around me. It’s in the small gestures — remembering my favorite cake flavor, choosing a color scheme for decorations, noticing something I’ve been thinking about, and turning it into a thoughtful gift. How many people will celebrate me this way when I’m no longer in my twenties? How will birthdays look 50 years from now, and what kind of attention, love, or joy will I still be surrounded by?

I pictured the bright cardigans, the games stretched across long tables, and the easy comfort of friendships built over decades — the same warmth I had witnessed that day at the home. It was the exact vision of the golden years I dream of. ■