my dearest ioanna,

I miss you. The you that used to be you. The you that barely had an idea of who these large shapes and figures passing you around were. Large teeth always bared with upturned lips, huge hands lifting you off the ground, pitching you into the sky. That sound that erupted out their mouths when you tripped or stumbled or tried to say something that came out silly but stuck in your throat. The you that used to be you that had no idea who or what you were, just a collection of feelings and senses and wonder.

I miss that you, but I also miss the you that became you -not the you you are now- but the you that came in between. The you that knew she had fingers and toes and moved around and wanted things and was denied things and played hours in silence and knew those big teeth belonged to someone called mommy and daddy and it was called smiling and that sound they made was laughter and their hands were either rough or thin but mostly gentle and there were other little ones like you but different, slightly taller, thinner, shorter, darker, wilder, calmer or just plain mean that you were enamored with, frightful of, wished for and were wanted by. The you that danced while playing. The you that was timid but also brave. The you that was shy and so desperately wanted to connect to everything. The one I would sing to, read to, comfort as we took your baby brother out of your arms. The you that loved him and competed with him.

And that you became this other you, a growing pains you, a morphing always changing in flux kind of you that was trying on her stubborn own to figure out where she fit and where they fit and how all the pieces could make sense if you found the right arrangement because this you, or that you, the you that was truly in-between all the previous iterations of you and all the iterations to come, knew in her heart it could be done. It had to be done. And this is the you that I liked the least. That is the you that terrified me because you went away. That was the you I couldn’t bear to watch because I had no idea of the outcome, I had no idea what I was seeing, what you would become. I was holding my breath because it could go bad, I might’ve never found you again, I might not recognize you afterwards. You might not want to recognize me. I think I missed you the most then, because you were gone and transforming but it was all happening right before my eyes and I really couldn’t do anything about it. You were you, doing your thing.

But now, there’s this you, the you before us. Galant and strong and always on the precipice. This is the you with a couple of hard edges, with boundaries, who knows her space and wants to carve her niche. This is the you that is learning when to take more and when give less. This is the you that is ready to claim what is hers. This is the you that has armed herself with the past to forge into the future. This is the you with an infinite amount of possibilities. An infinite amount of you to chose from, like accessories, like pieces of fine cloth, like a comfortable sweater hand picked from a thrift shop. I cannot say I like this you the most because I see all the you that came before and I thrill at the thought of all the you that will come after. This parade, this waterfall, this kaleidoscope, back and forth, of time.

What I can say however is this: it’s the you that you are and always have been. It’s the you I love the most.

-love, always
me

I hate goodbyes. Especially workplace goodbyes. They’re too long, too sappy and tired. They’re an excuse for people to eat free food and get their buzz on.
What’s even worse, you’re not really leaving the company. You’re not moving on into a higher paying position or being snapped up by a competitor. You’re relocating for Christ’s sake. Instead of this side of the Atlantic, you’re going to be on the other side: all that much closer to the origin of the sweetest nectar God has given man.
We’re just going to see you less. So what?
So I won’t say goodbye to you Michael Regan. It’s superfluous and unnecessary. I barely knew you anyway. A kid from Garden City that I took the train with a couple of times. Left Abacus for a while and ended up coming back because he got bored. Or the other thing didn’t work out. He didn’t like the other job. Or the other job didn’t like him. Whatever.
But I will say this: you’ve changed man. You went from six foot plus floundering goof ball yakking it up in the build room to competent semiprofessional professional. Still yakking it up in the build room. Still six foot plus, but with a goofy beard now. Sort of. Oh, you started coming to my side of the office more often too. Before, you did it because there was “footy” on the TV. Or you wanted to drop up some bad news about a client. Now you’ve started wandering in just to bullshit. That’s some stones man.
No more of that. Thank God.
I will say this however: I’m glad you came back to Abacus. I’m glad that you came back if only to leave again, if only to be that much closer to those fountains of Scotch that I dream about. If only to bring the same sense of semiprofessional professionalism to the UK. With the same goofy smile. And beard. Sort of a beard.
But yeah, I’ll miss you.
So what.

With the ins and outs of commuting and work and deadlines; our ECI migrations and Trader Tools dilemmas, it’s hard to be jolly. As we get older, the magic of Christmas wanes. For some of us, we’re lucky enough to reignite that spark vicariously through our children. For others, I’m just coming off like a loon: Christmas is practically every day for you.
You get my point.
But for me, it’s all about the tree. Getting it, lighting it, putting stuff on it and when the kids fall asleep, cramming stuff under it. It’s about them dragging us out of bed the next morning. It’s about sharing a glance with my wife as these sweet children turn into vicious monsters tearing through the piles. It’s about knowing there’s a dozen moments like this already behind us and hopefully dozens upon dozens more in the years ahead.
I hope something similar happens in your homes this weekend. I hope it’s filled with awe and peace and a kind of happiness that only a child really knows.
Happy Holidays.

Birthday’s change over time, don’t they? As very young children, we don’t get it. People standing around us, balloons, clapping, everyone’s staring. This cake that’s on fire. No, not fire, candles. And we blow, we’re supposed to blow them out.
Then we start to get it. We get presents, we see cousins we haven’t seen in months. Maybe our birthday is close to our brothers. We start to share the parties. Maybe it annoys us, but most likely it doesn’t matter. There’s this cake and the whole candle thing. Easier to blow them out with our brothers. Maybe we just let them do all the work and still get the same amount of presents.
As time goes by it becomes less of a family thing and more being with our friends thing. Maybe we start a night with our friends and end it in the company of someone beautiful. Maybe we laugh and tease our brothers, maybe we go out for a long drive and say goodbye to summer since our birthday comes so close to its end.
And it goes on like this for many years, the faces change, our face changes. It gets to the point where maybe there have been too many birthdays and they wash themselves out. It’s just another day. Maybe it’s a day we really don’t want to think about anymore because there have been so many and we don’t want to count.
But today, today there’s children all over again. And they’re hugging us like it’s their birthday instead of ours. And they’re seeing aunts and uncles and cousins they haven’t seen in awhile. And they’re teasing them just like we used to our brothers and sister and cousins. And maybe, just maybe we’ll let them help us blow out those candles.
On one condition: we keep all the presents.

To say I have never met anyone like you is an understatement. You are driven and resourceful, curious sand intuitive.
Your doggedness at times can be unnerving.
But you are also loyal and unwavering, committed and thoughtful.
Twenty years ago you noticed my name on a sheet of paper and sat beside me. Introduced yourself and made me your friend. We had some unforgettable times, dark times, and long nights that shine so brightly that strip away everything else.
We’ve built families out of nothing, we’ve found happiness and yet we still long for more. I should say, you do. You’ve never stopped wanting more: for yourself, for your friends, for your family.
This is perhaps the most important lesson you’ve taught me: never be complacent, never stop.
So keep going Ted, keep striving. Look at what you’ve accomplished at 40.
Imagine how much more you can still do.
Happy birthday my dear friend.

i shovel a mouth
full of pearls, gritty and shiny
until my teeth crack
and my tongue flattens
out of over my jaw and the edges
push against the base and i would
choke with laughter if it wasn’t for my ribs
heaving and collapsing, an armadillo
of bones, and instead
i stretch backwards until i can see
behind me and all the world
suddenly makes trees weeping their limbs
into the mud and fingers sprout out like grass
writhing without palms and
she would have been born without a palm
and i cough out the pearls bloody and sticky
and the saliva drapes over my eyes
but nothing ever blurs, not even the fingernails, not even
the swirls of a thousand fingertips

he found caterpillars for gravel and pulled from his teeth the roots of a tree and when he brushed them aside stuck underneath his fingernails were the tracks of a scar he could not stop ripping. he asked her, “have i left you? have i left you beyond repair?”
and the sun had gone from orange to crimson, a horizon in the howl of a wolf beaten and she peeled the skin off her knees where the wound bled thick pearls made of silver atop ants of gold. she replied, “you left me blind, you licked all the color out of my eyes.”
he pried open the space between them and drew out molted lilacs and handfuls of sheared wool caked with blood. he sealed it all off with spit and coughing as the moon yawned the sky, “i’ve ruined you, you’ve destroyed me, we’re nameless without a home.”

within a house, silence demands rupture,
a surface tension always at a point
of no return but never leaving. the roof
holds the exterior together, just as the edges
of your lips keep your tongue and your teeth
from flying out. and the weight of each
floor presses the center into the ground
the way your foot does in the mud
as you stumble away. every night
pulls itself inward, a slow and steady intake
of breath before bursting into exhaustion. i run
my hands over dead leaves and listen
for the promises that a set of nails makes
before being driven into concrete. if only
the grass were as warm.