oh, Mickey, you're so fine

For Emily, whenever I may find her...*

We met as
very different beings--
one small and quiet,
one tall and bold--
and became fast friends,
glued tight with
the sorts of joys and
pains
(and ages)
that seem neverending
when you're young.
Friends because
and despite
the changes,
the shifts away
from small and quiet,
from bigger and bolder.
In some ways,
we became more similar:
a dangerous prospect
when there seemed
room for only
a single strong one
at a time.
Our lives were
enmeshed, overlapping.
I knew you were there,
and of course
I took you for granted,
as you did me--
that's what friends,
when they're sixteen,
are for,
after all.
We counted on each other
to be there
come
what
may.
Twenty-two years
have passed
since we met.
I'm light-headed to think it.
Did we ever think
we could be so old?
Did we ever think
we could live so far apart?
We've not met,
face to face,
since A2, I think.
A lifetime's gone
since then.
A son,
a marriage,
a love,
created,
and ended,
found and lost.
Through it all,
an endless thread.
Not the same as it started,
and not the same as before,
but amazing in its
fortitude
and treasured
in its way.
Happy 36th, happiest birthday yet, Emily. I miss you, and I do love you, and I'm sorry about Christmas (as always). I hope that you and the musical one and the smaller one are well and content.

Here's a small token that you alone will appreciate--this blog will forever be findable by this phrase: "Matt has no balls!"

[* thanks to Simon and Garfunkel]