I remember how it would all start, maybe two weeks, or a month prior to now. All the little reminders that your birthday was coming, and as we grew older, and lived further away from each other, I’d be the one dropping little reminders about how old you would be getting. You were always sensitive about your age and had already started talking about botox. You got me On Chesil Beach when we were in junior college. A pair of icicle earrings, which got lost in the mail. The Dubliners, which I started last summer but have not completed. Jewellery. A pen. And countless other little things. I myself have clean forgotten what I ever got for your birthday. I knew sometimes I was late, but there was always something. a meal. a book (difficult, since you have already read so many things.)

What would I give to you now? I have nothing more to give to you. No way to convince you of how special you are. I couldn’t do it anyway. You were my Charlie- sparkier, funnier, more eloquent. Everything I wanted to give you you already had, and in abundance.

In contrast, there is a gaping hole in my life, where you once were. Nothing was untouched by you. it’s like a hurricane just came, nonchalantly tore off one half of a house, and left the other half standing. (What for?)

And I have done nothing to fix the damage. The roof still leaks occasionally. The books are sopping wet. There is no electricity, nor heat. I don’t want to repair anything. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.
Indelible. That’s what you are.

Happy birthday, wee.

From your darlingest onionhead.



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