Thursday April 9, 2020
From a text
I pretty much forgot my birthday even happened last year. It was three days after Stan died and thirteen days before Olivia was born and that is a strange time to have a birthday, let alone a sixtieth. Stan had said that he wanted to have a big party for me, a surprise maybe, catered and everything, with hired people passing around canapes and glasses of bubbly. “Fat chance,” I said. He was saying it to get my goat, one of his all-time favourite things to do. He knew that I hated parties. I’d avoid them at all costs. If I had to go to one, some political thing with him, or the Gourmand’s Christmas party or something, I would take a few tokes off the joint we kept in a bag in our freezer for moments like this and only moments like this. Stan used a CBD spray near the end, to help with pain, but that’s different. What I really wanted to do was go our for dim sum with Stan and Alice, who I would eat us both under the table given that she was nine months pregnant. I wanted to read my book, maybe play cribbage with Stan, and then go for a walk out to Leslie Street Spit. That’s what we do every year.