I can't believe you're sixty-three today. I suppose it makes sense, since none of us are spring chickens these days. But still, it does seem strange, that my best friend should be approaching his mid sixties. That said, I think you often feel younger than me in spirit. Younger than most people, actually. And I'm so thankful for that. I'm thankful for your energy and your spirit. For your celebratory mindset and your profound ability to not sweat the small stuff. It may be that you're just plain oblivious to it in the first place, but that's one of those Whitmire traits that mom would exclaim is both a blessing and a curse.
I think about when I was too sick to get off the couch. About those days I was sleeping through almost all the daylight hours and waking up after 16, 17 hours,
In a painful haze.
I think about going to the state fair during the height of my illness, because you said we could do it. And while it was wholly a miserable experience, and I felt rotten for the entirety of the time we were there, I was so happy.
That you know me. That you know I hate missing out on anything. And that you weren't going to let me.
That you fight for me. To be who you know I'm capable of being. That you support me.
And that you love without reserve.
Thank you for being you. I'm glad you were born, and gladder still that I was.
I love you. Happy birthday.
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