January 1, 2016

My dearest,

We are old men. It’s not quite 10:30pm and we’re already in bed, reading. Everyone else is at a New Year’s countdown somewhere.

They will be cheering and laughing and drinking. Beers and loud music. They will lose their voices and much of their hearing by the time the fireworks go off. Hey, it’s a party.

We are two old men in bed. A warm blanket and a good book are better than booze and noise. We are asleep before the fireworks… and even when they go off, we greet the new year with your left hand in my right, gently snoring, the way we always do.

We prefer a slow fire, you see. Fireworks fizzle out after a few minutes. Our flame burns longer and steadier and brighter. We are old men—and may we get older still.

Yours, ever and always.