I guess it's only fitting that I'm recording this at the end of a big storm, since that's how you were born.

Every year the words get fewer. I guess it's because there's fewer we ever need to say to each other. You're right there; you're right here, even when you're not.

So you're twenty-two. This week we'll have our third anniversary. If I were home and you were a woman my mom would already be begging us for grandchildren. Maybe she still would. I think to think she's come that far by now.

I can't kidnap your Mountie this time, he's out helping with the storm, but I got a note. He says:



'Scotty,

Happy birthday. I love you. I shall be far less eloquent this year: You. Me. Possibly Ray. Rods. As soon as possible.

All my love.

Renfield.'



Yipe. Okay. Enjoy that. You boys.

So. Beautiful. My soul is twenty-two. It's a good age. I mean, I keep thinking wistfully about being two old men who're overprotective of their yard, but seriously, don't get older so fast. We've only got one forever, I want it to last a while. Maybe stretch it out to two or three forevers. Infinity plus three.

You're still growing. I'm still in awe. How'd you do that?

I love you. I love every day.

Happy birthday, Scotty.