THE PUBLIC SHELF
For your birthday
Happy birthday to the only person alive who has seen me cry at a car commercial and never once brought it up again. Well. Rarely. Only at Thanksgiving.
I was trying to figure out what to say this year, and I realized I've never actually told you what you are to me. So I'm doing it in writing, so you can't change the subject.
You're the first person I call when something good happens, because you're the only one who's happier about it than I am. You're the first person I call when something bad happens, because you never tell me how to feel. You drove four hours the night my grandmother died and slept on my floor and didn't say a single wise thing, which was exactly right.
You've been there for every version of me. The goth phase. The bad marriage. The year I tried to become a runner. You never once made me feel like I had to be the best version to deserve you.
So this year, here's what I hope for you. The promotion, the good apartment with the big windows, at least one perfect beach day with nothing on your phone.
I'm so glad you were born. The world is louder and better and much funnier with you in it.
Tasha
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