Of girls, and creation, and the truth revealed in the depths of our shadows.
Dear Thomas Alan:
First, we should talk about girls. I think it should now be universally acknowledged that you, my boy, are much admired. Without us even realizing it, you’ve become the idée fixe of an increasing line of young women, several of whom have expressed an enthusiastic interest in becoming your betrothed.
And in your earnest defense, your reliable reaction to this news, which I share in this triennial birthday letter to you with only a hint of jealousy, is a dramatic, committed eye-roll. Which is to say, you’ve at least determined at this point in your life not to let such flattery define you. That’s worth something.
Last night I carried you in from the car after you’d fallen asleep on the way back from supper at your grandparents’ house. You were running a fever, and even though we worked to make sure you would blow out your candles and open presents in spite of not feeling well, it was clear you were spent. Your eyes were uncharacteristically weak; the bright flame of your curiosity had retreated. It wasn’t long before you’d nodded off.