It’s hard to believe it’s our friendiversary again. Hard to believe we’ve known each other so long. You were 10 when we met. You’re 12 now. That’s practically old enough to be in a retirement home.

I remember when we met, like it was yesterday. It was an overcast, autumn afternoon. I was three pant-sizes smaller than I am now.

I arrived at a restaurant named Bama Bucks in the hamlet of Boaz, Alabama (pop.10,369). Bama Bucks, a wild-game restaurant with a commercial deer farm across the street. All the deer in cages were staring at me.

I asked a fellow customer what was with all the deer. The customer replied, “You ever been to a seafood restaurant with a lobster tank?”

So we were definitely not in Birmingham anymore.

It was your laugh I noticed first. Outside the restaurant, you were sitting in a chair, waiting for me, rocking back and forth, clutching a white cane. Hair in a ponytail.

You were saying: “Is that him? Is that his voice I hear?” And then you just laughed.

The first thing we did was hug. And I like that. I like that we didn’t even know each other before we hugged. We just jumped right in.

You fit in the crook of my arms just right. You were so fragile. So tiny.

I knew a little about your story, of course. After all, you had written me a letter about losing your vision. Your teacher sent it to me.

Your biological mother was a drug abuser. You were one of those infants in the NICU with neonatal abstinence syndrome, in withdrawals the moment you left the womb. You were a foster kid, bouncing through The System like a veritable ping-pong ball, before two incredible parents adopted you.

Then, you lost your vision. Then you went through a really hard time. Then we met.

But I can trace it all back to that first hug. The history of you and me. After we hugged, I remember we all went inside the restaurant together and ate Bambi.

You sat across from me. At first, you were sort of quiet. And I immediately found myself trying to make you laugh.

I’m like my dad that way, I guess. He always tried to make kids laugh. Which would often get him in trouble with my mother inasmuch as sometimes Daddy tried to make kids laugh during formal occasions. Such as graveside services.

And well, you sort of brought out my dad in me. Which was a sensation I’d never experienced since I do not have kids.

Namely, because I am not parent material. I didn’t have children because I am not “parental.” I am not “responsible.” I do not “empty the dishwasher,” “make the bed,” or “renew my driver’s license.”

I am a musician. I have been a musician my entire adult life. I played in crowded joints with neon signs and visible air. Lively taverns, where bouncers would frisk patrons at the doors, and if you didn’t have a knife they’d give one to you.

But for all my faults, I can make kids laugh. And I didn’t even know I had that hidden ability until you came along. Neither did I know I would ever have a goddaughter.

So, if I’m being totally honest, I’m not sure I’m the kind of guy you need in your life, kiddo. You could do a lot better than me.

But here I am. For better or worse. And on our friendiversary, I have but one hope. I hope I can keep making you laugh for as long as I’m above ground.