Someone has a birthday in a few hours. She’s kind of special to me. Her name is Carrie Jane. Wisely, I cannot seem to recall the precise number of years old she is, but who’s counting, right?

She is not the literary type like I, but the Bard said it better in his sonnets than I ever could–of what it means to love another when so much changes, when tempests howl, when age exacts tolls upon our frames, when we gray and slow and eventually cease–but through all that, how the invisible power of love sustains.

Happy birthday to my Carrie Jane. See you soon.