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Happy birthday, Artboy.
Thirty years ago today, you were born, the first child in an Irish Catholic family. From the first, your mom says, you resisted authority, preferring to do things your way.
On your 24th birthday, I drove from rehearsal for the Scottish play into the city, to the house you were moving into that night. You were standing in the foyer, helping Jim carry his giant KISS poster up to his bedroom. I walked in with balloons and a card, unsure what to bring to my not-quite-boyfriend on his birthday so short a time after we met. You and I sat on the front steps in the warm May night and talked about celebrating Christmas in the house. I held my breath, hardly daring to hope you�d still be in my by December.
For your 26th birthday, I gave you a drill. I called Jim�s brother in New York on the payphone outside Home Depot to ask for advice on which one to buy. He steered me toward the yellow Dewalt. I was amazed at the cost of a drill. A worthwhile investment, though, I gather. Mike tells me you�re still using it, that it built half the new gallery. Hearing that makes me happy. I chose wisely.
I made a vegan chocolate cake for your 28th birthday, celebrated in the makeshift kitchen of the first gallery space. I was afraid to taste it. You were thrilled. The cake, surprisingly, was delicious. The tenuousness of our relationship only served to make that night seem happier, sweeter. You opened your present, a portable CD player so you�d have music wherever you were working (I�d chosen the Sony �Sports� model for its durability), and laughed, noting that I only seem to give you yellow birthday presents.
Last year, your 29th birthday, I raised my glass to you privately from the deck of the Norwegian Majesty as I looked out over the gorgeous blue of the Bermuda water. I don't know how you spent that day.
I hope this year brings you only good things, Tim.
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