18

It’s official. You can leave the house now and rent your own apartment. Order up a tattoo and put it anywhere. You can vote. Drive for Uber (in that thing?). Okay, maybe not.

So many more things now. Not to mention hair everywhere, spriggin’, sproutin’. You could pass for one of the young revolutionaries. You grow facial hair out exactly like your namesake. That’s actually pretty damn cool.

Okay, time to say something important now. Poetic.

You know better than me this last year wasn’t easy. You got punched in the gut a few times.

It’s hardly any consolation whatever poetry your old man does have in his quiver, so I say screw the poetry. Because it still hurts. Like a son of a bitch. I know, birthday boy. I see it in the little paunch you put on. Your droopy shoulders. You’re still a little unmoored right now. I get it.

Damn, though, just yesterday it seems you were coming up with your own brand of strut. That’s because damn right she was cute. We don’t date butter faces in this house. I know that’s not very nice, but her face.

You probably haven’t heard that one. I’ll explain it to you.

But yeah. Oh, and guess what other cheery news I have for you?

I guess 18’s as good a time as any to tell you that what’s next is you’ll fall again. And again. You’ll get up. The sun’ll shine a while until it doesn’t again. Each time you’ll grow from it. If you believe and ask hard enough and sincerely, you’ll come out better the other end. You’ll be better prepared for the next one. You’ll appreciate that much more the sun when it shines.

So ask. God. The ceiling. Your ancestors. The ocean. The universe, your socks–whatever feels right for you. Ask for strength and the right amount of fuck you, which we’ve talked about. Because you’re gonna have to pick up up where you left off on that strut.

You have to.

Dad