Today is her birthday.
I have been considering whether to acknowledge this publicly, and I have decided that I will, on the condition that we are all clear about one thing: the correct way to celebrate this day is to focus entirely on what she received.
She received me.
I arrived matted, unreachable, and already half-decided about the world, and she walked into that room and I leapt into her arms before she had finished crossing the threshold, because I am ancient and I know things, and I knew immediately that this one was mine.
She has given me warmth, tuna, a heated blanket that I regard as a fundamental human right, and the dignity of being taken seriously. In return, I have allowed her to exist in my presence, offered my philosophy free of charge, and occasionally touched my nose to her cheek when the world was being unkind.
She calls this an even exchange.
It is not, but I allow her the comfort of believing it.
On her birthday, I ask only this: tell her she is seen. Tell her she is the kind of person who walks into a room and changes the atmosphere, who carries both the dark and the light without apology, who finds the ancient, unbothered thing inside the chaos and calls it home.
She knows this, but she likes to hear it.
I know because I know everything.
Happy birthday, human.
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