Golden Boy is shaped somewhat like a honey bear with his conical red party hat. He appears to have a contended stillness to him, a fixity that is deceiving. You will notice that at any moment he might start making spirals with his wrists, claiming that these flowing motions release pent-up tension. At his fiftieth birthday barbecue, he tells me about his girlfriend and his hands start rolling. She is in the kitchen grilling a doctor friend about food allergies. Golden Boy loves his girlfriend, but wonders when they will ever start having fun.

Golden Boy and I have become fast friends in the molasses river of tai chi class. Our teacher is Myron Chin, a former power lifter with a squat body that still seems coiled and ready to spring, despite all the years of water wind movements. I am perpetually late to class, but Myron just shakes his head and smiles since I am able to drop in to the glacial time quite quickly. I slide in to the back corner of the rec center studio next to Golden Boy. He likes to have as many people in front of him as possible, so he can follow.

After break Myron likes us to switch places. Once he had everyone stay in place and turn towards the back wall, which totally unnerved Golden Boy who was now in the lead. I told him he’d do best to just claim the center spot, but Ken, the art restorer, is always there. I like to try out different spots and talk to other friends. Golden Boy dislikes change and is not sure how he feels about this birthday.

“Hey, your sisters are really great,” I say, tipping back a Heineken. Ruth, Carrie, and Joan are winning over all the men from Golden Boy’s construction crew while beating them at badminton in the large side yard.

He does the wrist roll and flick. “They keep me in line.” Despite his age, he will always be their baby brother, and they will always boss him around.

I make him hold the beer. I blow a paper horn on either side of his head. It makes a papery sound and muted toot as it extends and unfurls. It crumples and curls up. “That’s my special blessing for your birthday. No evil will enter your ears this year.”

“I hope you’re not going to do that for every orifice.” We laugh, and I give him a big hug. He is like the brother I never had, and is apparently relieved I’m nothing like his know-it-all sisters or his anxious girlfriend.

When his cousin asks about this tai chi business, Golden Boy and I nod to each other and start in on the form we have learned. We begin like zombies, with arms floating up and bodies sinking down at the knees. Arms get involved as we scoop up energy and roll it out and gather it back in. As always, I melt into the sway and molten movement and step out on light cat feet. As always, Golden Boy shadows me, not quite trusting that he knows all the moves.

His sister Ruth falls in next to me and tries to follow. She is an avid square dancer and does pretty well with the basic steps and arm swoops. I feel the giggles bubble up as, one by one, more of Golden Boy’s friends join in. The girlfriend watches from the kitchen stoop, waving him off when Golden Boy beckons her to jump in.

Everyone is quiet, watching me more than Golden Boy. Maybe they think I’m part Chinese, the only brunette in a sea of Swedes. I am aware of the trees swaying and the mallards floating on the pond just over there. The clouds are drifting and maybe it’s the beer or the chi circulating through me that makes me happy. I look behind at Golden Boy, and everyone pauses as he and I start this next complicated sequence.

As he does the movement that looks like backward swimming, so light and buoyant, the string on his party hat pops. The red cone topples and his short buzz cut glints in the afternoon sun. Finding himself in the middle of the unsure crowd, he barks out at his sister, “Now, watch me. This is how you do it.”