Living our good old days

I had a few bosom friends when I was a teenager. You know who you are. I made it through puberty because of you. I think about how we stayed up at night, how we talked, while we were driving, sitting, being, walking on the beach, wishing and hoping, waiting for life to happen. Little did we stop and think, we were living the good old days.

Well, here we are.
Life.

The days are relentless. Dear friends, I feel like a hostess who left you at my front door, forgetting to invite you in.

As I am typing this, Emeth just disappeared into the bathroom with a pile of books. My little old man, in his relentless pursuit of meaning and reason. Am I using the word "incredible" the right way? Does "mend" rhyme with "friend"? Tell me when it is the right time to ask "why."

Hanan holds my hand and calls me best friend. He gently stroked my hair the other day. "You are a brave little mommy, I am petting you." This kid. His favorite part of the day is when we count to one hundred -- forward and backward. Like I said, this kid.

Khesed is plump and round and soft. Nursing takes time. But I love the thought that every bit of him came from me. Except for the dimple on his right cheek. That was a gift.

Hans and I are remembering the tenth anniversary of our first conversation. The summer I lived with my parents after graduation, after traveling along the East Coast. The summer I was waiting for life to happen. That was some conversation.

I am sorry this space is collecting dust. I just want to pop in to let you know that I am alive and well, living my good old days, the days I have been wishing and hoping for thousands of summer nights ago.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I hope you are filling your days with plenty of things to talk about when we are old and wrinkly.

The candles burn.
The pages turn.