So, I’m 68 today. Imagine, 68. My sister died three years ago at 68. Seems like less than yesterday. I so miss her being the first one to call me on my birthday, so early in the morning, always worried that she’d not be the first—like who else would beat her to it! And she’d yell into the phone, raspy and off tune, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YUOOOOOO, HAP py BIRTH day TO YAWOUUUUUU, and so on. I can hear her now. We laughed to tears, every year for over 20.

Last night in contemplation for this day, I woke up before 5 AM and my cat, Byrdy was spooning with me on the bed. We had a long talk. I told her about being 68, alone, and fat, and she listened intently, quietly for a change—Byrdy talks in sentences I’m sure, constantly. Neither one of us knew what the other was thinking since she only understands Cat, and I wouldn’t even try to read the depths of those green—often black, always beautiful—eyes. She cared that I knew where to scratch and pet her—on her cheeks under the ears. I cared that someone listened without condition.  I’m not sure what all I said, and Byrdy doesn’t remember, but it was a good talk. Both of us got what we needed.