Today, you turn seventy-five; I purchase you more paper as you continue writing this new chapter of your life.
Memory: I was Eleanor Roosevelt and you narrated the imagination of magic.
Today, you are reminded that there is no such thing as too old to begin again.
Memory: You take me into your closet to choose whichever ties I’d like. You even encourage my double windsor.
Today, I articulate gratitude for having a father who not only encourages my words but has built up a travelogue of his own.
Memory: New Jersey. Garage sale. Grandfather clock.
Today, you are a published writer. With the most incredible agent/bookseller/partner by your side.
Memory: We are eating lunch in the place we always went to in West Hartford to share good news; I tell you about my relapse and you barely hesitate before taking a bite of honey-mustard-lathered bread and say, “I love you.”
Today, you own your ISBN and I have been traveling with your second novel in my backpack everyday for over a week.
Memory: After midnight in Connecticut, you wait in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and salt & peppered chicken to gossip about dating and love.
Today, it is not just your birthday but a reminder of how important it is to say thank you.
Thank you. For existing. Happy Birthday, Dad.