For a Friend Turn­ing Forty



Step up to the plate: our or­gans at half-life ap­proach­ing best be­fore dates. Skinny jeans meet or­thotic in­soles. Look­ing good, we say. Swing. De­cide not to cover the grey.

Strike one: thy­roid surgery.

Con­cen­trate, stay loose in the knees. Look back at the stands and spot your­self in the bleach­ers, age ten, hot dog grin.

Count the in­nings in be­tween. back­pack­ing in Nepal to mis­car­riage, you will never again be as young as you are now. Smile, you say.

Say Lyme disease, say di­a­betes.

Strike two. Tap the plate. We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher. You hate base­ball: all wait­ing around and not enough

fore­play. Mary Oliver in the hot cor­ner, eyes on home base and it’s balls to wood, swing batta batta batta swing, your best crack for her vic­tory lap.

You are the TSX in­dex her mu­tual funds are mea­sured against. You are prime plus, the pres­i­dent elect who knows what she wants and rips up Astro­turf in pur­suit of it.

Forty, we say, and clink our glasses.

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