“it is a serious thing,
just to be alive,
on this fresh morning,
in this broken world.”
— Mary Oliver, ‘Invitation’

My god, Samuel, we are here.

We had to tiptoe hell’s half-acre the past couple days, but by god we made it: A QUARTER CENTURY together! Twenty-five years, with you literally at the hips the whole ride.

Or was it I riding shotgun? After two-and-a-half decades, the lines begin to blur, the sutures blend, the scars become creases. We’ve been together longer than apart, keeping time in a rhythm that was never mine to claim.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve done together. The day we met, you taught: Life is brief as a whisper, and twice as faint.

And when we walked from the hospital that frigid Minnesota morning, I knew there was no turning round. I was through writing about crime, even if it meant quitting an occupation I loved. I was done asking the mothers of dead kids how they felt.

I knew how they felt. I was alive because of how they felt.

So we moved out West. And somehow got assigned to cover the movies, even appeared in one! We sat in Jack Nicholson’s living room!

And we rode our bikes for miles in the California sun.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve seen. We have lost fathers and father figures. We have buried some who should have long outlived us, including Sis. And Michael. And Richard. And Kevin. Ad infinitum.

But for nearly every of our 9,131 days together, you have represented life. We became ordained to officiate a magical wedding of a magical couple. We discovered the love of dogs, and they have loved us back seven-fold. We have taken up poetry.

My god Samuel, what you have taught me. Since you, I know that science is a faith; that time ticks up, not down; that hope resides not in grand gestures, but quiet choices.

Since you, my job has been simple: See tomorrow, sing your praises. So I do. Every. Single. Day. I’m as obnoxious about drivers licenses as a bouncer in a dank bar. But HAVUSGNDURLCNS2DAY? won’t fit on a vanity plate. Thus I harangue dog park passersby during the day.

At night, I think of immeasurables. How do you thank a man for curing your diabetes? What cost, ideal blood sugar? How do you make square the debt to a stranger who offers a kidney? Words could never capture your last morning becoming my first sunrise.

My god Samuel.

You are my second birthday, my courage incarnate, my love embodied. It took only a childhood of books and 25 years of your wisdom, but I finally get Seuss: Sam I am, and Guy am I. And I may be wrong, but I could swear I see a six and a zero in the not too far off. But you taught me to never assume health or time, and I will do neither.

So stand up, stretch your legs, admire the stratosphere. You’ve turned off the seat belt light; now chat up the first-class cabin about your unmatched flying skills.

And think of what you would like to see next. With you in the co-pilot seat, anywhere feels possible.