Today you are officially old, senior by even the strictest definition.
I dare not write to say Happy Birthday risk opening the ancient wound each of us hurting the other in ways so subtle they go right over our heads.
I’m still not over your last missive dripping regret cursing the calendar biology wrinkles being wider maybe not wiser your losses as palpable as the sorrow still in my psyche grief as old as dirt not even buried by four decades and a marriage that’s right for me.
Us at our best still eclipses the pain the sadness the chances we passed up each in our turn the eternal enmeshment of our psyches my dreams a constant replay you still haunting my soul with alternating grace and damage.
I was in my scrapbooks this week for another reason. You were frozen in time young and virile. I hit replay in your photos, cards, gifts vapors of your disappearing acts rising out the pages opportunity unrealized loss crystallized fading to yellow
tears of mourning arthritis of the spirit too old and creaky to flow down the rut we dug in my cheek.