In Hebrew, beshert means "preordained" or "bearing the fingerprints of divine providence." Did we know you would save my life on the day we met?
One fine day back in 1991, I curiously inquired as to your birthday (Lame!), tossing my hair over my shoulder with a delighted spark in my 23-year old eye.
"January 26th," you replied, all 18 years of you. Rockin' your Andy Gibb, Les Miz mullet with a smattering of pimples on your chin.
"That's the anniversary of my kidney transplant!" I cried, as your eyebrows disappeared up into your blond highlights. "We're meant to be good friends!" (Mega lame!)
We didn't know the name, but we could feel it.
7 years ago today, you gave me your kidney. Sweetheart, I know loving an alcoholic, redheaded, Scorpio writer is not easy, but I will never know how hard the journey was for you. Today, when I watch you laugh, elastic with joy, not restricted to dam pain, I shudder with gratitude.
That I am alive. That you are my person. That we have love. That you are the reason I pee.