To a friend on his 40th.
Every year for his birthday, I write a letter to my buddy Paul K. Sloan. Paul died on the 89th floor of the South Tower, World Trade Center on 9/11/01. Usually it’s a pair of letters. The first (uncensored) is hand-written and usually put in the box. And the second has the good parts taken out and made suitable for publication. This year for his 40th, there’s only one letter.
Dear Paul,
40. You’re 40 today. Fuck.
At least that’s what I thought on my 40th. I did the “It’s just another day” thing in public but privately I was like, I’m so fucked. Two other thoughts occurred to me that day—and while this letter is for you/should be about you—please indulge me for a second.
They were:
- I still feel 19 but my body doesn’t. It doesn’t feel 22 either. Or 27 or even 34. It definitely feels…
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