TM-237: Birthday
It's your birthday! If anything were possible, what would be your perfect way to celebrate?
I’m 87 years old today. America is 232. We’re both still standing, and as long as that’s true, I can’t ask for anything more.
*private*
It certainly doesn’t hurt that I’m spending my 87th birthday with the man I love, in the city I love. That wasn’t true a year ago today. There have been no supervillain attacks, and life is, at least for the moment, peaceful. We’re going to see the Macy’s fireworks later, from the comfort of one of Tony’s boats anchored on the shore of the East River, and I know, as I watch the colored lights exploding over New York and lean over to kiss Tony in their glow, that I will be a happy man.
But this question is asking for my perfect way to celebrate, and if I want to answer honestly, I have to admit that this is not perfection. Perfection would be Sharon, awake and happy and free of the guilt she doesn’t deserve. Perfection would be Sam at my side, not looking, for once, like he’s angry at me for reasons I don’t entirely understand. Perfection would be Bucky, fully himself again, with no trace of the Winter Soldier in his eyes, telling inappropriate jokes as I blew out the candles. Perfection would be Sally with her fathers on that boat, eating an ice cream cone and watching the fireworks with the undisguised glee I know her face can convey. Perfection would be the knowledge that my country, and my planet, was safe, not just on the anniversary of my birth, but every day; the knowledge that my job, and the jobs of those like me, was no longer necessary.
My birthday isn’t perfect. I’m not sure any birthday ever will be, though I live in constant hope. But I’m happier today than I have been since months before my 86th birthday, and for today, I’d rather count my blessings than focus on my regrets.
I’m 87 years old today. America is 232. We’re both still standing, and as long as that’s true, I can’t ask for anything more.
*private*
It certainly doesn’t hurt that I’m spending my 87th birthday with the man I love, in the city I love. That wasn’t true a year ago today. There have been no supervillain attacks, and life is, at least for the moment, peaceful. We’re going to see the Macy’s fireworks later, from the comfort of one of Tony’s boats anchored on the shore of the East River, and I know, as I watch the colored lights exploding over New York and lean over to kiss Tony in their glow, that I will be a happy man.
But this question is asking for my perfect way to celebrate, and if I want to answer honestly, I have to admit that this is not perfection. Perfection would be Sharon, awake and happy and free of the guilt she doesn’t deserve. Perfection would be Sam at my side, not looking, for once, like he’s angry at me for reasons I don’t entirely understand. Perfection would be Bucky, fully himself again, with no trace of the Winter Soldier in his eyes, telling inappropriate jokes as I blew out the candles. Perfection would be Sally with her fathers on that boat, eating an ice cream cone and watching the fireworks with the undisguised glee I know her face can convey. Perfection would be the knowledge that my country, and my planet, was safe, not just on the anniversary of my birth, but every day; the knowledge that my job, and the jobs of those like me, was no longer necessary.
My birthday isn’t perfect. I’m not sure any birthday ever will be, though I live in constant hope. But I’m happier today than I have been since months before my 86th birthday, and for today, I’d rather count my blessings than focus on my regrets.