Growing old gracefully.

I decided to take March away from drinking, save two sets of circumstance: a sip of wine for ritual blessings, and if I was with family. Tonight was the latter. That the family was just my father and me was immaterial because it still qualified. Up on his building's rooftop, we split a bottle of hard cider, about seventy-thirty - him the thirty, me the seventy. Tart without being sour, sweet enough to cut the tartness, small bubbles and a gentle roll over the back of the tongue down the throat, they make good ciders up in the Hudson Valley.

We were up there with the good timing to catch the sunlight reflecting off a building and down to the river. Just the sunlight off the building was pretty enough - a bit of the windows a little brighter than the rest. It was the reflection of the sunlight that made it beautiful. In the water, that little reflection of sunshine on the glass got refracted and then magnified, the extra surface and the waves and ebbs of the river turning it brighter, making it larger, making it something dynamic and beautiful. Not just a bit of brightness anymore. But shaking, moving light that did a better job to show the beauty of the sunset than the simple reflection in the windows.

I'm sure there's something already said in a novel or a song somewhere about the transformation of the reflection doing a better job of capturing the spirit and grace of the original light, the original thing, than the first reflection. It seems a thing Terry Pratchett might've said once. Whoever said it, I know I saw it, drinking good cider and making my father laugh, and for that, it's been one of the better birthdays I've had in a good while.

There's the possible thought to keep drinking, keep the buzz going. It's my birthday, after all. And there's a couple nice ciders in the fridge.