For whatever reason 35 feels big to me. I’ve been thinking a lot about it and what I want it, and the time after it, to be, and inside the collection of Mary Oliver poems that I picked up at Tim’s Used Books in Provincetown last week I found a mighty fine answer.
Look, I want to love this world
as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
Today is Baby Brother Bryan’s 31st birthday and I love him for a whole dang buncha reasons including but most certainly not limited to:
he’s the best Taboo partner
he’ll accompany you to the top of the tallest mountain in the lower 48 if you ask him to
he doesn’t mind singing only the backup parts when you feel like being Aladdin and Jasmine during impromptu living room sing-alongs
he’ll drive all the miles on a road trip
his taste in movies is superb (Major Payne, Remote, Three Ninjas)
But mostly, I like the way he looks.
My oh-so-generous 64th birthday gift to you this year is a promise to never cut your hair using anything that hooks up to a vacuum cleaner hose.
Happy birthday! Also, you’re welcome.