I'm not always like this. A foolish old woman searching a small stuffy room for a simple piece of paper that is anything but.

Once a year, I guess you could say I indulge myself . Oh, in the beginning it was much worse. I wasted so much time, precious time hoping that someday he would come back for me. But he never did.

And I know maybe I should blame him, and for a while of course I did, but I really can't anymore. I have no clue if he is even alive. He may have died long ago.

And then again he may be sitting holding another woman's hand; growing old with someone else.

I only have my memories. And most days those are pushed aside, but never forgotten. And then when my Birthday rolls around, and it always does, I find myself looking for a piece of folded paper of faded red and green. The only flower I ever appreciated receiving.

I never remember where it is I last stashed it, my memory's not what it used to be, you see. But I search until I find it.

I should keep it in a safe place, I know. After all it is one of a kind, and could never be replaced. But I leave it to fate. If I find it, it is mine for the wee hours of the night when thoughts of him visit me.

If I don't ? Well I have never not found it. It always turns up somewhere.

But today might be a first you know, because I have been searching for it since this morning and the light is beginning to leave the sky.

I know I should probably just give up, and when the phone rings, most likely my daughter calling to say Happy Birthday to her old mother, I will have to.

I will have to give up and spend this relentlessly approaching night alone. Which will also be a first for me.

You see, I have always spent this special day with Michael. He is always with me in my heart, of course, but this special day he is truly here. At least for me he is.

I sit and hold his flower and I am there again in the infirmary. I am young and falling in love for what I now know, but didn't believe then, to be the first time.

I feel his eyes, those oh, so intense blue gray pieces of heaven delve into me and I know some of what we shared was real. Maybe not as real as it could have been; real enough to come back for. But real just the same.

Of course I probably don't need the origami to go back there. And maybe I don't need his visits at all?

Maybe I'm just an old woman who sits and talks to herself dreaming about the road not taken; dreaming about being the change I wanted to see in the world...