I don’t do fine wood-working. I do functional wood-working. And on my birthday, I built the simple shelf I needed for piles of papers. Since I’m a piler.

The upright is from a player piano that was hauled out of the basement of a house down the street. In pieces.

The top shelf is from a desk hauled out of another basement. The shelf brackets are from that same basement.

The second shelf is from a board my dad finished long ago. Most of the screws and an angle bracket are from an odd workshop table we rescued from a dumpster a couple weeks ago.

The rest of that table has already been cleaned up, painted, reshelved, and is holding plants. The shelves of that table were cut from a larger shelf I bought for a dollar.

On the same birthday, I heard from a woman who first saw me when I was literally a babe in arms. I heard from people from every phase of my life, and there have been several phases. Put together, the day–and my life–are like the shelf. Pieces from all over, each with its own story, each a regular reminder of some good things and times. I’ll do my best to follow up. But I’m grateful for those connections that have shaped me.

On the same birthday, I heard that a story that’s followed me, shaping me, haunting me, for twenty-five years may be coming to an end. There were regular reminders there, too, the kind that we talk about as triggers. Only a few people knew. I’m relieved that this phase of the story may finally be done.

On the same birthday, we watched the sun set, standing on the top of a parking garage. It was a good place to be.