still and always so good-looking
(as is his wife, my baby sister),
so talented, an excellent father
and husband, a man who deserves,
after a long career as a high school
art teacher, to retire this year,
which he will (and my sister,
the amazing physical therapist,
will, too).

Honestly, when did the man rack up
six-and-a-half decades? I’m six months
behind him, age-wise, and I can’t
feature either of us old enough
to retire or him old enough to be
a grandpa, which he’s set to become
in June as his daughter (my niece,
born on my 29th birthday)
marinates a new life inside her.

But there you are—just yesterday,
I swear, we played in the college band
together, and then he and my sister,
both of them in gleaming white,
got married, and, it seemed,
a minute after that one baby,
then a second, arrived, as he
house-husbanded the family,

then a whole career, a whole life,
far from over—still exuberantly,
joyfully in progress—with bike
riding and painting and gardening
and more to be discovered.

So happy birthday, dear Eric,
sketching a future into 65,
and beyond (to infinity, perhaps)
with so much love from so many
who adore you—not least
me.