Dear JD,
Every year on this day I'm tempted to write your mother a letter.  I want to send her a stack of papers, all hand-written in my small print.  You say my print is close to a typewriter's in size, but it wouldn't be small enough.  I'd write smaller and fill a stack of papers.

I'd list every way you make me happy, every emotion you make me feel, every time you've picked me up when I couldn't move on.  And then I'd write about the time you took off your jacket and gave it to a homeless man sleeping on the cold street.  I'd tell her how you sleep so deep your eyes flutter under their lids, and I'd ask if you slept the same way as a baby.  I'd tell her how deep you smile when you smell tomatoes at the farmer's market and tip the grocer for his advice for which yellow squash cooks best in olive oil.

I'd write about the times I find you in a crowded room simply by listening to the sound of your laugh.  Soft, unassuming.  I'd thank her for raising such a wonderful man.  A man who views the world as his oyster…to share with others.

Photo by Trever Hoehne

Every year on your birthday I'm tempted to write your mother a letter.  A stack of paper trying to sum up how I feel about you.  How much love I'd pour into each word, but it still wouldn't be enough.  I couldn't possibly explain what you mean to me.

Because I lack the words, I'll simply tell you I love you.  And Happy Birthday.

All my heart,
j*