Sonnet 87

Happy birthday to my fiancé, who is a sprightly 34 (thirty-four; treinta y cuatro; trentaquattro; trideset četiri; třicet-čtyři; fire og tredive; vierendertig; tiedonhaku-ja neljä; trente-quatre; vierunddreißig; tριάντα τεσσερα; trettifire; trzydzieści cztery; trinta e quarto; treizeci şi patru de; тридцать четыре; trettiofyra) today. Many happy returns from your 30-year-old fiancée, who adores the hell out of you and wishes you many more years of being four years older than I am for the rest of our lives. This is the seventh birthday I’ve shared with you and I’m just as excited to celebrate with you as I was in 2002. I still remember you lamenting the idea of turning 28 (fer crissakes, you said). Now you insist that you are a mere 29. How time changes our perspectives, eh?

In all seriousness, though, happy birthday to the man who, within the year, will be my husband. The names may change — date, boyfriend, fiancé, husband — but you’re always simply IP, the man who loves me for who I am, as I love you for who you are. We’ll celebrate with good food, good ice cream cake, a gift that I hope will help you reach your goals, and with the knowledge that we’ll have a wonderful time, at this birthday and the next and the next and the next . . .

Felíz cumpleaños, honey.