I woke up this morning, too early, coughing and congested, and T murmured, "Want me to make you some coffee?" It is my 59th birthday and he is sad that I am sick for it. I thanked him and said, no, I'd be better off upright anyhow. So here I am, at 5 a.m., sitting on the couch with my cup of self-made coffee, feeling marginally better than yesterday, I think, so happy birthday to me.

Usually, on this holiday, I muse a bit about my year, about my state of mind, about getting older. Maybe I'll still end up doing that as this letter unrolls, but head colds aren't great triggers of elegy. Today I'm welcoming the last year of my 50s by noticing that I can now breathe out of one of my nostrils. Isn't that great?

Earlier in the week T and I had made plans to drive to the midcoast and check out an unfamiliar beach, to book reservations at a good restaurant for dinner. But today will be rainy and windy, and I'm so stuffed up that it's a question as to whether or not I'll be able to taste anything I eat. It's not looking like an ideal day for fun.

Nonetheless, I'll be hanging out with a guy who was willing to get out of bed at 5 a.m. to bring me coffee and a kiss, so I know it will be a good day anyhow, even if we do nothing but walk around the block in the rain.

In this, the final year of my 50s,  I am still trying to write poems, I am still not earning enough money, I am still beaming over my young people and fretting over my parents, I am still basking in thirty-odd years of a big romance. So what's different? I'm scrabbling into a new work venture at Monson Arts, so that's one new thing. And I'm in a new place with friends; that's another thing. Over the course of this past year, several of my friendships have deepened, become more complex and interesting, often with writing and reading as a center of that shift, but not always. It's been exciting, to be as old as I am and still discover that it's possible to enter into these kinds of soul-relationships with other people.

I've got dear friends from college, dear friends from my young-parent years, dear friends from Harmony, dear friends from the Frost Place, dear friends from Portland, dear friends from accidental meetings . . . the circle keeps widening, and all I can think is how fortunate I am; how fortunate.

So, yes, I've got a boring, annoying, ugly head cold. But I'm still so glad to be here.