patricky

Today is my birthday. This is the most important fact you will learn today.

No, really it is.

Just accept it, and possibly even embrace it.


Two years ago, I wrote the following. I paste it now, acknowledging and ignoring the misplaced commas:


As I write this, I'm one half hour from my birthday, and two and a half from the time of my birth, almost thirty three years ago.

I've been sitting in the car, smoking, and drinking a hard cider. The night is warm, and so is the cider.

Just outside, the dog is wheezing in his sleep, and I can hear him turning fitfully in his little nestle hole beneath the porch. He's old now, eighteen years or more, and his time is drawing to a close. He has tumors, and his legs are stiff. He gets confused so easily now, and he wanders, unknowing, into the streets sometimes in the early mornings. We've discussed putting him to sleep, but my mother says she's afraid of how the children would react. I think she's the one who desperately fears losing him.

Tonight she told me that she wakes every year, on my birthday, at two a.m., to remember and to celebrate. Idly, I've considered waiting up until then to see if she really does wake, or just thinks she does. But I won't do that - it's disrespectful to her to presume to intrude into such a private thing.

In a few moments, I'll go back outside, and smoke one last cigarette, and drink one more cider, seperated from the moment of my birth by twenty two hours, and thirty two years.

Goodnight everyone, and goodbye to thirty two: it seems we hardly got to know each other before we had to part.



In those two years, I have changed superficially, but remained essentially the same. The dog passed shortly after I wrote the above, fading into an eternal dream while I held his paw and rubbed his ears. I have a new puppy now: she is beautiful, and stupid, and perfect.

Happy birthday to myself.