The Last Time I Saw My First Love Was on My 17th Birthday – Thirty Years Later, a Woman Who Looked Exactly like Her Walked Into My Yard

I turned 47 last week, and for thirty years, I’ve kept myself busy on my birthday.

Mowing the lawn at six in the morning. Cleaning the gutters. Organizing the garage into a system that nobody but me would understand.

Anything with a motor, or a task list, or enough noise to fill a head that would otherwise go somewhere I don’t want it to go.

For thirty years, I hated my birthday.

Her name was Lily.

We were seventeen, the kind of close that adults watch with slightly worried expressions and describe as a “phase.”