I remember when we celebrated our 18th birthday. Yours was one month and a day later, but we decided to celebrate together anyway. The venue of celebration? There was no question about it...we absolutely positively had to go to Chuckie Cheese's. There was nowhere else that could embrace the fun we wanted to have. It was decided.
So there we were. Two barefoot teenagers running around together in a place meant for five year old's. We pigged out on pizza. We crawled around in the play place, laughing hysterically and throwing balls at each other. We played those silly little games with such a determination you would've thought it was for money. And when we gathered all our tickets, we happily collected our cheap prizes and carried them home like gold.
Later that night, you gave me a card scribbled with your Micah handwriting.
"I hope you never 'grow up' too much that you can't have fun," it said.
Another birthday means another year from you, another separator. I'm reminded that in a month and one day, once again you won't catch up to me in age. Stuck, like some Neverland boy. Stuck, in that 18 years. Stuck, with the thoughts you were thinking that day and the way you walked into the music room in your sandals and gray, striped shirt and the way your voice trailed off saying "I love you" before you hung up the phone.
But you were supposed to live on. And that's valid enough to carry you in my heart so that every year I celebrate my own birth I'll carry you with me in age, too. That because you can't grow up to have that fun, I'll do it for the both of us. I do it this year and I will do it every year until I'm 100 years old.
So there we were. Two barefoot teenagers running around together in a place meant for five year old's. We pigged out on pizza. We crawled around in the play place, laughing hysterically and throwing balls at each other. We played those silly little games with such a determination you would've thought it was for money. And when we gathered all our tickets, we happily collected our cheap prizes and carried them home like gold.
Later that night, you gave me a card scribbled with your Micah handwriting.
"I hope you never 'grow up' too much that you can't have fun," it said.
Another birthday means another year from you, another separator. I'm reminded that in a month and one day, once again you won't catch up to me in age. Stuck, like some Neverland boy. Stuck, in that 18 years. Stuck, with the thoughts you were thinking that day and the way you walked into the music room in your sandals and gray, striped shirt and the way your voice trailed off saying "I love you" before you hung up the phone.
But you were supposed to live on. And that's valid enough to carry you in my heart so that every year I celebrate my own birth I'll carry you with me in age, too. That because you can't grow up to have that fun, I'll do it for the both of us. I do it this year and I will do it every year until I'm 100 years old.
