Like the immigrant in Barry Levinson's Avalon that arrives in the port of Baltimore and walks his first steps in the new country unknowingly beneath a July 4th display of fireworks, your birthday has always been part of Thanksgiving.
At work I have to photocopy driver's licenses before allowing customers to go on test drives.  For as long as it takes between my work station and the photocopier I study the faces and read the birth-dates and zip codes and look for invisible threads to begin weaving a plausible narrative into a sale. 
Its impossible to (not) see similarities between age groups, genders, nationalities, and zip codes.  Many of the faces are our faces.  Many of the birth-dates coincide with our own. 
For all the years I spent in the wilderness longing for a return to the landscape of my youth, even the zip codes and street names can inexplicably play into the loosely choreographed pas de deux that backgrounds my 60 hour work week at CitySide Subaru.
Its been 5 years since you passed and not a single day has passed without some occurrence or random thought reminding me you are no longer down the street at Tamar, in your office on the phone, taptaptapping on your keyboard, lying on the sofa wrapped in one of Ma's afghans, toes wiggling, reading a book. 
I can recall you typing on a machine, in fact, in a corner of the basement, here in Swellesley, your Olivetti has a place of honor amongst the many silent, obsolete artifacts; Grandma's folding bridge table, the swords Dad brought back from Japan, the drums I bought for Ben to play when he visited us for the wedding 2 years ago, my camera equipment.. the list is long and eclectic and random and carries the weight of its years, yet each of these displays is a reminder.  Where I've been, and how grateful I am for where I am…
Today you would have been 60.  Amy, 57, and I am 54.  Ma is 86, practically 87, and Dad would have been 87 almost 88, but in my mind he will always be 64, and you will remain 55 for an eternity. 
You looked at me once and said: "Peter you know what you are?"  Then, with the precision of a dart landing in the bull's eye: "You're … a nostalgicist."  A word, not even a real word - and like the (metaphorically) dust covered museum in the basement, it bears witness to the influence you have had in my life, even now, selling cars, in Wellesley, with Mahcy, talking to my kids, with my customers, pulling the thread, weaving the narrative, asking the questions, questioning the answers, seeking truth.