Stephen turned seventy-two yesterday.  For some reason, this year I reflected again on the fact that I was thirty and he was twenty-six when I robbed him from the cradle, though the robbing was actually the other way around.

We drove to the North Georgia mountains yesterday, at Stephen’s pleasure, to visit our friend Martin’s mother who turns ninety this coming Thursday and lives alone; Martin teaches in California.

We were going to visit Norma on Thursday, but at last, after a good bit of medical musical chairs, Stephen enters the hospital on that day for a TAVR procedure, I leave it to you to google what that is.

Stephen is stalwart, but I worry and cannot talk… for a change.  He zoomed past willful to obstinate years ago, but is a master of illusion: everyone loves him.

Help me.