Mrs. T and I had dinner last night with a long-lost friend whom I hadn’t seen for twelve years, after which the three of us went to the Irish Repertory Theater to see Brian Friel’s Aristocrats. Then we returned home and went to bed, and when I woke up this morning I was fifty-three years old. Regular readers of this blog will scarcely need to be reminded that there was a time when I didn’t expect to live to see this day, or any others–but I got married, wrote an opera, and finished a biography instead of dying. Not bad for one lifetime.
It was at the Irish Rep that I saw the first play I reviewed after I got out of the hospital three years ago. After last night’s performance of Aristocrats, an artist whom I admire greatly paid me a compliment that made me blush, the kind that you spend the rest of your life remembering on days when nothing goes right. “I’m glad I was able to say those things to you in this theater,” she added. I wish I’d had the wit to reply that I was glad I’d lived to hear her say them.
The truth is that I’m glad for each and every minute of the past three years, good and bad alike. I cannot begin to list the things for which I’m grateful. That Mrs. T heads the list goes without saying, but for everyone out there who suspects that you’re on my list as well, I have no doubt that you’re right.
Thank you, dear friends.