Today is my cousin Jimmy's birthday.
He doesn't go by Jimmy anymore, but that hardly matters here where I've lost all touch with him and there's a good chance we'll never see each other again.
What happened? You ask.
Nothing.
We are as close now as we ever were.
It is as curiously comfortable to not be with him as it is to be with him. I cannot explain these things. But so it has always been.
He was easily my favorite family member growing up.
I don't miss him.
I adore him.
When we were first taking to bicycling, which especially became a big part of his life, we endlessly rode in circles on his family's driveway in La Jolla California. We took turns riding a two-wheeler and pushing a tricycle. Here he is on the tricycle:
(Look at him. He is so dear. So intent. Quiet. Contained.)
When I last saw him, ten or fifteen years ago, he hadn't changed in anyway I could tell. He never had.
So I'm sure he still hasn't.
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