My stepson, Caleb, has corralled his friends for a weekend of celebrating his 25th birthday. I can almost see the steam radiating from their bronzed limbs in squiggly little cartoon lines as they burst through our entranceway.
Sweaty night air, pungent with plant gametes, infuses the space. “Close the door, boys,” my husband, Keith, calls out to them. “You are letting out the cold.” He doesn’t attempt to rise from the padded upholstery of his automatic sitting-to-standing armchair as the boys make their procession over to greet him.
The boys detail weekend plans of beaches, bonfires and barbecued meat.
Keith smiles and tells them we have plans too. Dateline on tv tonight. Paul and Dianne’s 40th anniversary party tomorrow at the new Italian restaurant downtown.
When I was 30, Keith was my debonair 50 year old fiancé. Did I truly have a thing for older men then or had I enjoyed the currency that came with being younger? Now, at age 50 myself, I can’t say I’m sure.
Keith urges them to enjoy the heat, the sun and whatever shenanigans the summer has to offer. When the boys leave, he reminisces about how it wasn’t that long ago that he adored soaking in the summer himself. Breaststroking against the lake currents. Boating through the channels. His skin browning under the sun. “That would have been a while ago,” he says. “Back when I was a lot younger.” Back when he was still older than what I am now.
No comments:
Post a Comment