Today is Pete’s birthday. Pete is my brother. I almost never remember to do anything about celebrating Pete’s birthday because my brain is usually so preoccupied with shiny distractions that it sneaks up on me and flashes by so fast that I don’t think about it until after when I guiltily consider sending him a belated card but never do.

This year is something of a milestone, however. This year, the guy who is my younger brother turns fifty years old, which kind of blows my mind. It’s hard enough trying to wrap my head around the idea that I’m fifty-three, although the aches and pains that have crept into my muscles and joints in just the past few years have made that task quite a bit easier, but to think of Pete turning fifty is really very strange. He’s technically still younger than I am and yet he’s fifty. My Dad was fifty. It just doesn’t make sense somehow.

But this isn’t one of those birthday wishes with cardboard cutout headstones and black balloons and a gray cake in the shape of a coffin with “Happy Birthday To The Walking Dead” in black frosting letters. I hate parties like those and wouldn’t wish one on anybody. Nope, this one is nothing but the happiest of birthday wishes to my brother that I actually remembered well before the actual day. Happy birthday to you, moj brat.