When your knees were a bloody mess
I often say, no regrets. That's a lie. I wish I had met you earlier, in your growing years. When you wore your hair long and your trousers short. The time when you took your bicycle to the playground and came home walking, having forgotten that you had taken it. Or the time when you jumped into a ditch to retrieve a ball and came out with your calves and knees in a bloody mess. How I wish I had been there to wrestle with you and race you to the finish every time. All those adolescent nights you spent debating the mysteries of life and such like. I wish I had been part of your gang, wide awake with excitement and possibilities. And the time when you lost that man you loved, respected and adored. I wish I had been there to hold your hand. But I'm glad I met you when I did. Happy birthday, mister. There's no one else I'd rather wake up with.