On Wednesday, my nephew turns one. On Wednesday, I will not be there. The good fortune is he won’t remember. Still, I will.
But I need him (and you — and me I suppose), to know that I woke up on Saturday happier than I’ve felt in years. This is not to say I don’t have my happy days. I do. But this breed of happiness is the childhood kind of glee that you grow to recognize later in life. It’s waking up on a rainy, sunless, bitter, winter day warmed to the core, knowing that you are surrounded, embraced, enveloped by love.