Who could know that you,
A man from America's Norseland
With glacier blue eyes and Frankish nose,
With German surname
And quiet resolve,
Would craft a lure made of wood and steel,
and patience and lyric,
Truth spilling out from your troubadour's tongue.
Who could know that I,
A man of olive skin and onyx orbs,
With Spanish nomenclature,
Like so much of my Native Barbary Bay.
Would hear your musical call,
transfixed, by the similar ache and
yearn.
Yet here we are.
Kindred survivors of synonymous strife.
Different and the same.
Grateful for the end of those Warrior days of spring.
Happy in our late summer fruits.
Yearning for our Autumn's harvest and Winter's rest
Knowing that we share all this and more and love
in Common.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Ides Of Grace
Spring is almost here and my heart is light as a lark's warble. I've been happy in my life, but never to the extent I am as of this writing. It's difficult to put into words, but I need to make the attempt.
My folks were barely adults when they had me. We learned the harsh realities of the world together. Like many people, I had my share of difficulties growing up. Yet I always had the blessing of a loving family, despite its disfunction.
Either by uncanny selection or Universal providence, I'm surrounded by loving people. I didn't lose a single person when I came out. Not one. I realize just how rare this is.
I am blessed with many deep, long lasting relationships. It's a bit Capraesque, and like George Bailey, I often forget that good people draw other good people to them. I've recently been reminded of this.
My ex is fast approaching her one year anneversary of her surgery date. Ironically, her transformation date happens to be the day before my birthday. So as I've been ticking off the days to my 43nd birthday, I've also been contemplating her metamorphasis.
It has been a transformative moment for the both of us.
Obviously, she has the larger burden to bear. The release of decades of obfuscation, of pain and denial. I can only imagine the relief she must feel. I can empathize. Most gay men have a similar revelatory moment when they decide to come out.
Yet even that pales in comparison to completely altering one's gender. The scalpel is applied not just to flesh, but psyche as well. It a complete cosmic reordering of one's life and soul. My ex has displayed a courage one reads about, but seldom sees.
She's also had moments of terror and doubt. I am grateful for the opportunity to have been there for her during this transitional time. I've often been asked, "how on earth did you do it? How did you stay friends with your ex in the face of all this?"
The answer has always been the same. "It's who I am."
Teresa and I have a history. You don't spend 7 years in love with someone and then in their darkest moment abandon them. Unconditional Love is giving love expecting none in return. This is the only kind of love I know how to give.
I still love Teresa. Uncondtionally. But for the fact that I am completely and totally unattracted physically to the female form, we would still be a couple.
I am all together graced.
Graced with good friends. Graced with an amazing family. Graced with a man who loves me like I've never been loved.
Graced with the conviction that doing right by someone no matter the emotional cost to yourself, is the only way to live life.
A life with Grace.
My folks were barely adults when they had me. We learned the harsh realities of the world together. Like many people, I had my share of difficulties growing up. Yet I always had the blessing of a loving family, despite its disfunction.
Either by uncanny selection or Universal providence, I'm surrounded by loving people. I didn't lose a single person when I came out. Not one. I realize just how rare this is.
I am blessed with many deep, long lasting relationships. It's a bit Capraesque, and like George Bailey, I often forget that good people draw other good people to them. I've recently been reminded of this.
My ex is fast approaching her one year anneversary of her surgery date. Ironically, her transformation date happens to be the day before my birthday. So as I've been ticking off the days to my 43nd birthday, I've also been contemplating her metamorphasis.
It has been a transformative moment for the both of us.
Obviously, she has the larger burden to bear. The release of decades of obfuscation, of pain and denial. I can only imagine the relief she must feel. I can empathize. Most gay men have a similar revelatory moment when they decide to come out.
Yet even that pales in comparison to completely altering one's gender. The scalpel is applied not just to flesh, but psyche as well. It a complete cosmic reordering of one's life and soul. My ex has displayed a courage one reads about, but seldom sees.
She's also had moments of terror and doubt. I am grateful for the opportunity to have been there for her during this transitional time. I've often been asked, "how on earth did you do it? How did you stay friends with your ex in the face of all this?"
The answer has always been the same. "It's who I am."
Teresa and I have a history. You don't spend 7 years in love with someone and then in their darkest moment abandon them. Unconditional Love is giving love expecting none in return. This is the only kind of love I know how to give.
I still love Teresa. Uncondtionally. But for the fact that I am completely and totally unattracted physically to the female form, we would still be a couple.
I am all together graced.
Graced with good friends. Graced with an amazing family. Graced with a man who loves me like I've never been loved.
Graced with the conviction that doing right by someone no matter the emotional cost to yourself, is the only way to live life.
A life with Grace.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Accretion
Are we like planets?
Formed from bits of stardust,
drawn toward each other like so many
grains of sand?
Do we orbit each other in a pre-ordained,
Galilean/Newtonian cosmic embrace
that comfirms the presence of
gravity?
Or is it chance? The coincidental alignment of
person, place and time?
Is it simply the act of accretion
that binds you, I, us together?
Are we merely the product of an immutible
Universal Law?
The result of a time tested hypothesis
of human desire?
What is our nature?
Is it chaos? Disorder created out
of our teachings, tropes and theories?
What knowledge do we gleen from
Our soul crucibles?
Where you and I apart,
have ground hope and time
into the dust that is failed
love?
Unkowns stacked upon unsolved mysteries.
Yet I do know this;
For good or ill,
Fated or chance,
I find myself within the pull
of your core.
Drawn into the warm ambit of the
life giving daystar that is
your heart.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Shadows On Snow
He drifts across snow,
like a shadow cast by vapor and
mist.
Myth made manifest in a stolen glimpse.
He is sighted, loping across a field of spent blizzard.
A blot of brown on a palid scape.
He glides, over granite.
He thrives on tundra.
A primal sentinel.
The glacier's guardian.
Arctic hermit.
American recluse.
Reaper of the peak.
he finds sustinance on
carrion.
Life from lifelessness.
Nomad of the North,
he roams his winter kingdom
on padded snowshoe paws.
Hooked claws honed on frozen
flesh and bone.
We regard each other across the expanse between us.
I in awe of the winter's last will o' wisp.
This last warrior from a primal
age.
He looks through me rather than at me.
Seeing past me to the horizon,
to the glorious glaciers beyond.
He turns away and lopes on
into his desired desolation.
He travels away from me,
vanishing from view.
Leaving me alone
upon this frozen shelf of
ice and time.
like a shadow cast by vapor and
mist.
Myth made manifest in a stolen glimpse.
He is sighted, loping across a field of spent blizzard.
A blot of brown on a palid scape.
He glides, over granite.
He thrives on tundra.
A primal sentinel.
The glacier's guardian.
Arctic hermit.
American recluse.
Reaper of the peak.
he finds sustinance on
carrion.
Life from lifelessness.
Nomad of the North,
he roams his winter kingdom
on padded snowshoe paws.
Hooked claws honed on frozen
flesh and bone.
We regard each other across the expanse between us.
I in awe of the winter's last will o' wisp.
This last warrior from a primal
age.
He looks through me rather than at me.
Seeing past me to the horizon,
to the glorious glaciers beyond.
He turns away and lopes on
into his desired desolation.
He travels away from me,
vanishing from view.
Leaving me alone
upon this frozen shelf of
ice and time.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Pride
It's been 17 years since I finally acknowledged to family, friends, and myself that I am a gay man. Like many of my brothers and sisters of our age it took much soul searching. I, and many like me grew up in an era when the word "Gay" was synonymnous with "AIDS".
Though I grew up near San Francisco, watching the macabre scene that was the 80's play out on my TV screen, I was largely untouched personally by the AIDS crisis. Born too young for the 70's and scared witless by the late 80's I didn't suffer the loss of a partner or loved one to a satin red ribbon. Though there was one man who I will never forget, and who's death gave me the strength to finally leave my closeted perdition.
I was 16 when, as part of my confirmation process I was in need of community service hours. I had chosen to volunteer at a local hospice, where a few AIDS victims were living out the last of their days. It was there that I met David.
I couldn't begin to tell you what David looked like. I don't recall if he was handsome or his nationality. I don't remember his age, or his skin color, or the shade of his eyes.
But I remember his voice.
My God yes, I still remember that deep and resonate, warm as a summer day in the valley, melodic voice. When I met David it was still strong enough to catch my note. When he'd ask for a glass of water or the day's paper, I'd get all warm and fuzzy in side.
And then he was gone. AIDS took David and so many young men like him. They left a hole in the world as deep as David's voice.
Years later in 1994, I was in college when a flyer went around my history class. the names project was bringing a few of the panels for display over the Cinco de Mayo holiday. I was still in the closet but by this time I was searching for a way out.
It was David who gave me the key.
So I tell myself, "I need to see the quilt. It's an opportunity to see a piece of local history." I arrive at the event early. A number of us students are there waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The quilt caretakers are reverent with their charge. They handle this living archive of those who've been lost with a purpose and solemnity that brings most of us to tears. Once the quilt has been placed, the crowd that has gathered is invited to meander amongst the panels and reflect.
I begin to wander about, noticing how colorful and beautiful many of the panels are. So many names. So many gone. So young.
Too young.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a particular panel. It wasn't particually noticeable. It was white without any adornment to speak of. I make my way to the panel feeling somewhat drawn to it. As I stand in front of it I make out the name.
It's David's panel.
I fall to my knees and cry tears that have been building since I realized a decade earlier that I liked boys. Cathartic, cleansing tears. Tears that dissolve my closet door forever.
My soul has been ressurected by savior with a baritone voice calling out from a silken shroud spread out under an early May sky. On my knees there in front of his panel, I promise David I will never live in fear again.
I will be true to myself. I will love freely. I will live with pride.
Pride.
Though I grew up near San Francisco, watching the macabre scene that was the 80's play out on my TV screen, I was largely untouched personally by the AIDS crisis. Born too young for the 70's and scared witless by the late 80's I didn't suffer the loss of a partner or loved one to a satin red ribbon. Though there was one man who I will never forget, and who's death gave me the strength to finally leave my closeted perdition.
I was 16 when, as part of my confirmation process I was in need of community service hours. I had chosen to volunteer at a local hospice, where a few AIDS victims were living out the last of their days. It was there that I met David.
I couldn't begin to tell you what David looked like. I don't recall if he was handsome or his nationality. I don't remember his age, or his skin color, or the shade of his eyes.
But I remember his voice.
My God yes, I still remember that deep and resonate, warm as a summer day in the valley, melodic voice. When I met David it was still strong enough to catch my note. When he'd ask for a glass of water or the day's paper, I'd get all warm and fuzzy in side.
And then he was gone. AIDS took David and so many young men like him. They left a hole in the world as deep as David's voice.
Years later in 1994, I was in college when a flyer went around my history class. the names project was bringing a few of the panels for display over the Cinco de Mayo holiday. I was still in the closet but by this time I was searching for a way out.
It was David who gave me the key.
So I tell myself, "I need to see the quilt. It's an opportunity to see a piece of local history." I arrive at the event early. A number of us students are there waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The quilt caretakers are reverent with their charge. They handle this living archive of those who've been lost with a purpose and solemnity that brings most of us to tears. Once the quilt has been placed, the crowd that has gathered is invited to meander amongst the panels and reflect.
I begin to wander about, noticing how colorful and beautiful many of the panels are. So many names. So many gone. So young.
Too young.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a particular panel. It wasn't particually noticeable. It was white without any adornment to speak of. I make my way to the panel feeling somewhat drawn to it. As I stand in front of it I make out the name.
It's David's panel.
I fall to my knees and cry tears that have been building since I realized a decade earlier that I liked boys. Cathartic, cleansing tears. Tears that dissolve my closet door forever.
My soul has been ressurected by savior with a baritone voice calling out from a silken shroud spread out under an early May sky. On my knees there in front of his panel, I promise David I will never live in fear again.
I will be true to myself. I will love freely. I will live with pride.
Pride.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Solar Return II
As we drive up the side of the hill and into the parking space I see several cabins. Ours is aptly named the "Treehouse". It's quaint and well appointed. A wood buring fireplace, exposed redwood beams and a soaking tub greet the two of us. Mark opens the shades on the glass French doors that open to a wooden deck and I gasp.
The view is breathtaking.
Between the sequoia sentinels that flank our cabin, the yawning pacific is in clear view. Gulls wing aloft on an evening zephyr. Again, the urge to break down into a weepy silly mess is strong but I manage to hold it together. The embrace I give Mark comes from the deepest part of my being. In one grand unselfish loving act Mark has done what no other man has been able to;
He's healed my heart.
A sense of absolute peace steals over me. In the scant time we've been together, Mark has shown me capital "L" Love more times than I can count. Mark had become home to me. My shield against the strife that exists in everyday living.
Mark had made reservations for dinner that evening. St. Orres serves world class cuisine, and I must say it was one of the finest meals I've ever had. From the cold pineapple soup, to the perfectly cooked fillet, my palete enjoyed a variety of wonderful flavors that evening. All the while those twinking blue eyes of Mark's gaze across the table at me. Deep soulful eyes filled with love.
Love for me.
The next morning, Breakfast arrives on our cabin porch in a critter proof box that is a marvel. Contained within is more of St Orres fantastic food. Quiche, organic fruit, granola, milk, oj. Nourishment as much for the soul as the body.
We spend the next couple of days beach combing. We drive up to Point Arena where I collect pieces of abalone, while he gathers bits of colored glass. Both of us facinated by the action of nature on one of mankind's most mundane objects. Flecks of green, brown and blue sanded and polished into little silicone gems.
We drive home along Highway 1. Both of us grateful for different things. Mark happy that the weather forecast turned out wrong. We were blessed with amazing weather for the entire weekend. No rain or fog meant the Mendocino and Sonoma coast were bathed in sunlight. Spring grass and orange poppies greeted us along the meandering coast highway.
My gratitute existing on several levels. As shallow as the bliss afforded by Mark knowing who Dokken is. Or being able to sing the words of "Winds of Change" (The Scorpions for the uninitiated). To the deep well spring of appreciation that here at last is a man who "gets" me. Here is someone who knows me as well as I know myself.
A man who sees my light and loves my dark.
The weekend ends with a trip through Bodega Bay, and a stop at the Freestone Bakery. We walk to the General Store and grab something to drink. Mark and I share a comfort and ease with each other that had always been sensed but never explored.
It's in the comfortable silences that I find revelation.
I no longer have to wish on birthday candles. Never again will I have to tie knots into hankerchiefs when I see a shooting star. Gone are reading tea leaves, tarot cards and horoscopes. I don't have to hope for the future.
My future is now. My future is Mark. That is the best birthday present of all.
And all I want to do is weep.
For joy.
The view is breathtaking.
Between the sequoia sentinels that flank our cabin, the yawning pacific is in clear view. Gulls wing aloft on an evening zephyr. Again, the urge to break down into a weepy silly mess is strong but I manage to hold it together. The embrace I give Mark comes from the deepest part of my being. In one grand unselfish loving act Mark has done what no other man has been able to;
He's healed my heart.
A sense of absolute peace steals over me. In the scant time we've been together, Mark has shown me capital "L" Love more times than I can count. Mark had become home to me. My shield against the strife that exists in everyday living.
Mark had made reservations for dinner that evening. St. Orres serves world class cuisine, and I must say it was one of the finest meals I've ever had. From the cold pineapple soup, to the perfectly cooked fillet, my palete enjoyed a variety of wonderful flavors that evening. All the while those twinking blue eyes of Mark's gaze across the table at me. Deep soulful eyes filled with love.
Love for me.
The next morning, Breakfast arrives on our cabin porch in a critter proof box that is a marvel. Contained within is more of St Orres fantastic food. Quiche, organic fruit, granola, milk, oj. Nourishment as much for the soul as the body.
We spend the next couple of days beach combing. We drive up to Point Arena where I collect pieces of abalone, while he gathers bits of colored glass. Both of us facinated by the action of nature on one of mankind's most mundane objects. Flecks of green, brown and blue sanded and polished into little silicone gems.
We drive home along Highway 1. Both of us grateful for different things. Mark happy that the weather forecast turned out wrong. We were blessed with amazing weather for the entire weekend. No rain or fog meant the Mendocino and Sonoma coast were bathed in sunlight. Spring grass and orange poppies greeted us along the meandering coast highway.
My gratitute existing on several levels. As shallow as the bliss afforded by Mark knowing who Dokken is. Or being able to sing the words of "Winds of Change" (The Scorpions for the uninitiated). To the deep well spring of appreciation that here at last is a man who "gets" me. Here is someone who knows me as well as I know myself.
A man who sees my light and loves my dark.
The weekend ends with a trip through Bodega Bay, and a stop at the Freestone Bakery. We walk to the General Store and grab something to drink. Mark and I share a comfort and ease with each other that had always been sensed but never explored.
It's in the comfortable silences that I find revelation.
I no longer have to wish on birthday candles. Never again will I have to tie knots into hankerchiefs when I see a shooting star. Gone are reading tea leaves, tarot cards and horoscopes. I don't have to hope for the future.
My future is now. My future is Mark. That is the best birthday present of all.
And all I want to do is weep.
For joy.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Solar Return
So here I am in the 42nd year of my life, extremely happy and fulfilled. Thursday past was my birthday and I have to say, the best birthday of my life. I know that sounds like hyperbole but allow me to explain.
I've never seen my birthday as special. My childhood was short courtesy of an alcoholic father. I learned rather early not to belive what I was told, but rather what I was shown. After my father missed my 8th birthday party in favor of a drunken stupor with his buddies, I gave up on seeing my birthday as anything but another day on the calendar.
Not that others haven't tried to make the day special. My mother to her everlasting credit did all she could during my youthful birthdays to make up for my father's missteps. My brothers have always done the same. I've had lovers kick up the biggest fuss and throw the best parties for me. Yet nothing has ever revived the long dormant spirit of child-like wonder birthdays are supposed to have.
Until last Thursday.
So my Great Love meets me at Sundance for a night of 2-stepping on my birthday. This in and of its self is a huge deal for me. As with every other time we've danced it's throughly magical. He truly is my match in so many ways. Our dance chemistry is unique and I've only ever shared such ease on the floor with a handful of dance partners.
We drive to his place, throughly exhausted. We go to bed, me knowing that he has to work in the morning. While I wish he didn't have to I'm excited just to be with him. I look forward to greeting him when he arrives home from teaching his beloved charges. I awake with a start at 7am realizing he's going to be late if he doesn't get up immediately.
I rouse him, he rolls over and nonchalantly intones "I took today off. Go back to sleep." I'm so joyful at the news I bear hug him to the point of hearing joints pop. We happily sleep in, arising only because we do have a bit of work to do.
Mark has an incredibly giving nature. He weekly gathers donated goods from one of the local super stores and delivers them to a day labor center near his home. It's the sort of action that many of us of the liberal ilk speak of but seldom actually do. Yet Mark has been quietly giving of his time and his pocket book to the causes that move him for years.
It's inspiring.
So it's not only a pleasure but a joy to help him on his appointed rounds. As the men from the labor center unload my car, I see a sense of gratitude and relief I've not experienced since I was a boy. The look is the same one I remember as I stood in line with my grandmother to get free government butter and cheese; pride giving way to need.
Poverty knows no era.
For my reward, Mark takes me to lunch near Goat Rock, a promitory in the Pacific just off the Sonoma Coast near Jenner. We dine on amazing Indian food. The mango lasse shared between us seems all the sweeter because it belongs to both of us.
After lunch, Mark suggests a drive up the coast to Whale watch. Loving both the company and my Mini, I eagerly agree. We drive up the coast heading North. It's difficult to describe the drive up the Coast Highway. Beautiful seems such a poor descriptor of Sonoma's natural wonder that time, wind and water have wrought.
We jump out of the car only once. We tumble back to the warmth of the Mini, chased there by cold, wet weather that reminds us both it's still nascent spring on the North Coast. The warmth of his hands and his kiss still linger as I start the car and we continue North.
Somewhere along the drive I see a sign that says the little town of Gualala is a short ride from where we are. I suggest we head there since, that part of Mendocino county has special meaning for me. Mark amiably agrees, suggesting there's a toy store there that he wants to visit.
I need no excuse to point the Mini in the direction of the Menodocino county line. Mark indicates that the toy store is up beyond town. As we crest a ridge I see what can only be described as a Russian Catherdral resting on rise. As I turn into the entrance a sign greets us with the name "St Orres".
We park and venture in. I expect to see toys lining the shelves. Instead I find a beautifully appointed lobby. An inviting bench made up of pew ends sits in front of a fire. As I look around in bewilderment, a silver haired gentleman appears, emerging from a oaken swinging door. he smiles and asks if he can assist us.
Mark intones, "yes we have reservations for 2 nights". He looks at me and a victorious smiles sweeps across his face. He's pulled it off. The surprise is complete. In that moment, in that self satisfied smile of Mark's, I realize that this birthday has been unlike any other. For the first time in more than 30 years I experience the joy of wonder.
I feel like I'm 9 again and all I want to do is weep. Instead, I follow Mark back out to my car, a silly sheepish grin on my face. We follow the directions given us by the innkeeper and we arrive at our abode for the next 2 days.
What happens next will follow in another post.....
I've never seen my birthday as special. My childhood was short courtesy of an alcoholic father. I learned rather early not to belive what I was told, but rather what I was shown. After my father missed my 8th birthday party in favor of a drunken stupor with his buddies, I gave up on seeing my birthday as anything but another day on the calendar.
Not that others haven't tried to make the day special. My mother to her everlasting credit did all she could during my youthful birthdays to make up for my father's missteps. My brothers have always done the same. I've had lovers kick up the biggest fuss and throw the best parties for me. Yet nothing has ever revived the long dormant spirit of child-like wonder birthdays are supposed to have.
Until last Thursday.
So my Great Love meets me at Sundance for a night of 2-stepping on my birthday. This in and of its self is a huge deal for me. As with every other time we've danced it's throughly magical. He truly is my match in so many ways. Our dance chemistry is unique and I've only ever shared such ease on the floor with a handful of dance partners.
We drive to his place, throughly exhausted. We go to bed, me knowing that he has to work in the morning. While I wish he didn't have to I'm excited just to be with him. I look forward to greeting him when he arrives home from teaching his beloved charges. I awake with a start at 7am realizing he's going to be late if he doesn't get up immediately.
I rouse him, he rolls over and nonchalantly intones "I took today off. Go back to sleep." I'm so joyful at the news I bear hug him to the point of hearing joints pop. We happily sleep in, arising only because we do have a bit of work to do.
Mark has an incredibly giving nature. He weekly gathers donated goods from one of the local super stores and delivers them to a day labor center near his home. It's the sort of action that many of us of the liberal ilk speak of but seldom actually do. Yet Mark has been quietly giving of his time and his pocket book to the causes that move him for years.
It's inspiring.
So it's not only a pleasure but a joy to help him on his appointed rounds. As the men from the labor center unload my car, I see a sense of gratitude and relief I've not experienced since I was a boy. The look is the same one I remember as I stood in line with my grandmother to get free government butter and cheese; pride giving way to need.
Poverty knows no era.
For my reward, Mark takes me to lunch near Goat Rock, a promitory in the Pacific just off the Sonoma Coast near Jenner. We dine on amazing Indian food. The mango lasse shared between us seems all the sweeter because it belongs to both of us.
After lunch, Mark suggests a drive up the coast to Whale watch. Loving both the company and my Mini, I eagerly agree. We drive up the coast heading North. It's difficult to describe the drive up the Coast Highway. Beautiful seems such a poor descriptor of Sonoma's natural wonder that time, wind and water have wrought.
We jump out of the car only once. We tumble back to the warmth of the Mini, chased there by cold, wet weather that reminds us both it's still nascent spring on the North Coast. The warmth of his hands and his kiss still linger as I start the car and we continue North.
Somewhere along the drive I see a sign that says the little town of Gualala is a short ride from where we are. I suggest we head there since, that part of Mendocino county has special meaning for me. Mark amiably agrees, suggesting there's a toy store there that he wants to visit.
I need no excuse to point the Mini in the direction of the Menodocino county line. Mark indicates that the toy store is up beyond town. As we crest a ridge I see what can only be described as a Russian Catherdral resting on rise. As I turn into the entrance a sign greets us with the name "St Orres".
We park and venture in. I expect to see toys lining the shelves. Instead I find a beautifully appointed lobby. An inviting bench made up of pew ends sits in front of a fire. As I look around in bewilderment, a silver haired gentleman appears, emerging from a oaken swinging door. he smiles and asks if he can assist us.
Mark intones, "yes we have reservations for 2 nights". He looks at me and a victorious smiles sweeps across his face. He's pulled it off. The surprise is complete. In that moment, in that self satisfied smile of Mark's, I realize that this birthday has been unlike any other. For the first time in more than 30 years I experience the joy of wonder.
I feel like I'm 9 again and all I want to do is weep. Instead, I follow Mark back out to my car, a silly sheepish grin on my face. We follow the directions given us by the innkeeper and we arrive at our abode for the next 2 days.
What happens next will follow in another post.....
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