Born in the year of the cicadas
Your colicky wails mimicked the shrill cries of the bug
To create a voice unique to our ears, and to the world.
It has been that way ever since.
Under the sign of Gemini, on Dylan’s 50th,
We thought -
This is going to be a wild ride.
Ain’t that been the truth.
Too many moments to prove otherwise.
It’s hard to pick a favorite.
Perhaps when you were two years old and
You walked away from your mother at the mall.
Only to be found fifteen minutes later,
After the mall had been placed in lockdown,
Talking to two elderly women ten stores away from
Where you’d last been seen.
You never did know a stranger.
Or sending Steve Garrison’s mother to the clinic with a nasty bite
When she mistakenly backed you into a corner at daycare.
Or putting poor Leroy the cat in the freezer and
Claiming your brother did it.
Rebar on the soccer field. The last line of defense.
The endless parade of friends and critters brought to the house,
Most of whom, to our joy, are still in our lives.
You’re the perfect mix,
Your mother’s calm and nurturing ways.
And your father’s hypersensitivity.
Like mixing yoga and football.
Pensive, moody, fierce, unyielding.
Joyful, expansive, embracing, giving.
At work, it’s always, “May I help you?”
At 22, still figuring when to be which.
And I suppose, which to be when.
It’s a rich journey.
Happy Birthday
