Yep. That would be me.
P and I never did a lot of celebrating when it came to our own birthdays. He, especially, had a deep aversion to anyone making a big deal out of it (although if you had wanted to buy him a flat-screen TV or a nice DVD box set in honor of the occasion, no problem) and would usually try to find a way to hide out at home, watching a basketball game or something similar. So it isn't a lack of recognition that's bothering me on this, my first birthday without him. It's the idea that I'm getting older and he isn't. He's supposed to be the eldest, not me. In two years, I'll be older than he ever got to be, and that upsets the fundamental balance of the universe as I see it.
He had a lot more birthdays than anyone expected, you know. First they said he'd die as a newborn, then as a child, then before he reached his teens, but he never did. He kept on living, defying all odds and predictions, for thirty-six years and four months and five days. He never cared about getting older the way so many people do; he thought it was stupid to mourn your lost youth. How could he? Every year he lived was a year he hadn't died. I suppose that's a morbid way to look at it, but it's better than crying over your grey hair and crows' feet. And God knows I've got enough of those already at the ripe old age of thirty-five.