I don’t remember when we started calling each other “Merny” and “Brendy,” but somehow it stuck. And that’s how I still think of us.

It’s another birthday for you, and half-birthday for me. We won’t be going out to dinner as we always did, or reminiscing about the early years in New England and the coming-of-age years in Washington. And we won’t be laughing about how pissed Mother was that we never included her in our birthday dinners, and how she couldn’t understand that we wanted something that was just for us.

But I still remember it all — especially my 30th when I passed out in Costin’s Sirloin Room and embarrassed the hell out of you (again). And your 58th, when Mother decided to get even for all those missed dinners by dying right on the day, and we never did make it to dinner at Le Refuge that year.

I never would have believed, all those years ago, that I would miss you this much. But I do. You take care.

Love you,
Brendy